


A Turn of the Page

by avioleta



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Time, Flourish and Blotts, Kid Fic, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Mystery, Powerful Harry, bookseller!Harry, magical theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5654755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avioleta/pseuds/avioleta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus returns to Wizarding London after nearly a decade and runs into Harry Potter at Flourish and Blotts, of all places.  The man’s working on something intriguing and, when he offers Severus a job, Severus finds that—though it’s not what he’s expecting—it’s exactly what he’s been looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Turn of the Page

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the 2015 Odd Jobs Fest on snape_potter. Thank you to the mods for their organisation and edits.
> 
> Warning for a past, non-explicit relationship between Harry/OFC.

It has been nearly a decade since Severus has set foot in Diagon Alley, but the place still feels familiar. Severus hates that it feels like coming home. Years ago, when he left England, he vowed he’d never return.

It’s funny how things change.

The sky is bright and clear, and the sun beats down on his back. It is unseasonably hot, even for June. He doesn’t want to think about July. He’s not wearing a robe; it would be intolerable without a cooling charm, and Severus doesn’t do cooling charms.

Flourish and Blotts looks exactly the same as the last time Severus was here. In truth, it looks exactly the same as the first time he was, too. The bell clangs as he opens the door. The store is quiet today. The heat has kept most people home, and the rush of back-to-school shopping is still another two months away. Inside, the shop smells of dust and leather and, of course, books.

Severus gives into the temptation to browse for a few minutes and, as he walks between the shelves, he’s once again struck by a disturbing sense of nostalgia. While at Hogwarts, he visited the bookshop several times a term, for either personal or school business. It’s strange to be back.

The proprietor, Mr. Wilkes, smiles a genuine smile as Severus approaches the counter. “Severus,” he says, reaching for a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “I have your order right here.” Nothing in the man’s tone suggests he’s at all surprised at seeing Severus back in England after all this time, and Severus is reminded of why he always liked the old bookseller. He’s pulling some Galleons from his pocket when someone crashes into him from behind, nearly knocking him over. Before he has time to turn and glare, a young boy is pushing past him with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

The child doesn’t look remotely sorry.

He makes his way behind the counter, and Severus is about to inform the young miscreant that children are not allowed back there, when Mr. Wilkes smiles.

“Ah, James,” he says, handing Severus his change, “what do you have for me now?”

“Just these two.” The boy holds out a slim brown book and a tightly rolled sheaf of parchment.

The bookseller pulls a pair of spectacles from the pocket of his robes and slips them on to examine the texts. “Wonderful,” he says, and the boy—James—beams. “Tell your father a new shipment has just arrived. I know he has his hands full with the Maharana translation, but he’ll probably want to come have a look.”

“Yeah, most likely.” The boy rounds the counter again at top speed, only narrowly missing Severus this time. He sprints down the length of the store, skidding to a halt when he reaches the stairs leading up to the rooms above the shop. “Dad! Dad!” he screams. “Mr. Wilkes says he’s got some new books for you!”

Severus winces at the noise, glancing at Mr. Wilkes—surely the man doesn’t tolerate such behaviour in his shop—but the bookseller’s expression is fond. The man has obviously become soft in recent years. Severus is turning to leave when he hears a man’s voice.

“So I heard there’s a new shipment just in.”

Severus freezes. It’s been nearly a decade, but he would recognise that voice anywhere. He turns back to the counter.

Harry Potter is standing there, one hand on the child’s shoulder. He looks the same. He’s older of course—they all are—and he’s neither bruised nor bleeding, but he looks the same. Potter’s dark hair is in need of a cut; his fringe falls over his forehead, obscuring the scar Severus knows is still there. And behind the glasses—fashionable square frames now—the man’s eyes are still the same deep green.

“Oh my God, Snape—”

Severus realises he’s staring.

“Professor Snape,” Potter says, walking over and extending a hand. “It’s been a long time, sir.”

“I…yes.” Severus takes his hand because, really, it would be rude not to. He feels flustered and distinctly uncomfortable, standing here in front of this shadow from his past, but Potter smiles—a wide bright smile—and Severus pushes the memories of a dark, dank shack to the corner of his mind. “Mr. Potter,” he manages after moment, “what are you doing here?”

Potter laughs, running a hand through his hair; it curls around his fingers. “Well, I work here, for one.”

Severus frowns. That’s not what he was expecting. “You work here?”

“I do. Going on five years now.”

“And we live upstairs above the shop, too!” the boy adds cheerfully.

“Do you?” For the first time, Severus really looks at the child. The resemblance to Potter is clear. The boy has his father’s dark hair, though it’s cropped close to his head, and he has the same pale skin. His eyes, though, are nothing like Potter’s. His eyes are a deep, warm brown—the colour so dark they’re nearly black—and right now they’re regarding Severus curiously.

“You have a son.” It sounds ridiculous the moment the words are out of Severus’s mouth. Obviously the man does; the boy is standing right in front of him. But Severus hadn’t even known that Potter had married, much less that he had children.

“Yes,” Potter says, amused, “and I have done for, what—” he looks down at James, “eight, nine years?”

The boy laughs. “Seven and a half, Dad. I’ll be eight in December.”

“Ah, right, of course,” he says, looking at Severus again. “Well, there you have it.”

“Professor Snape…” the boy says then, brow furrowing. “Wait, were you my dad’s old Potions Master?”

“I was.”

“I think the better question for Professor Snape,” Potter says, “is what’s he doing here?” And though his voice is light, there’s an undercurrent there that Severus can’t read.

“I…” He’s tempted to say he’s collecting a purchase. It’s the truth, after all, but that response would be childish and, of course, it’s not what Potter is asking. “I’m here…” Severus’s gut clenches and he takes a deep breath. “I’m here because my mum died. There are arrangements. A funeral.” Though the words make Severus feel gutted once again, they are not nearly as hard to say to Harry Potter as he imagined they would be.

Potter’s face darkens, but Severus doesn’t see any pity there—he wouldn’t tolerate pity. “I’m sorry, Professor.” The words are genuine. “Was she ill?”

Severus nods. “Lung cancer. There was nothing they could do.” And there wasn’t. Every Friday for the past eight years, Eileen had Floo’d to Severus’s apartment in Paris for a weekly visit. Until a month ago, when she’d firecalled to say she wasn’t feeling well enough to make the trip.

Severus had Apparated to the house at Spinner’s End immediately, international Apparition laws be damned. It was the first time he’d set foot on English soil since the war. Draco had come from St. Mungo’s. He was discreet and he was very good at his job, but he told Severus the same thing the Healer he Floo’d in from Paris had—Muggle cancer can’t be cured.

If a potion existed, Severus could brew it. But none did. The disease had already progressed too far for anything other than palliative measures, and Severus didn’t leave her bedside until she died.

“When’s the service?” Potter asks.

“Thursday at St. Mary’s in Leicestershire.”

The man nods. “Well, I hope I see you around, Professor.” There is no insincerity there, and Severus finds himself nodding before extending a hand to the child still standing at his father’s side.

“It was nice to meet you, James.”

The boy smiles, dark eyes wide, and shakes Severus’s hand.

***

Spinner’s End makes Severus’s skin feel tight.

During the war, when he was forced to play the Dark Lord’s warden, Severus made sure his mother was safely out of the country. He hoped that she would take to life on the continent and live with him abroad once everything was over and he left England for good. But she was homesick. Against all explanation, she missed Spinner’s End and the house she’d shared with Tobias.

Severus’s childhood wasn’t happy by any means. But his mother did what she could, and he misses her dearly.

He spends his time cleaning.

First the kitchen. Though it is tiny and cramped, his mother kept it spotless. Severus scours the countertops and mops the floors before washing down the stovetop and basin. He doesn’t use charms. It feels good to do things by hand.

The bathroom is next, followed by the small sitting room. Severus does not touch his mother’s desk. Her spell books and journals remain exactly where she left them.

Severus also does not go into his mother’s room. He’s not ready.

***

It’s raining when they arrive at the churchyard. Severus didn’t bring an umbrella; wetness seeps through his coat, but he hardly notices. He’s cold, numb, but it has nothing to do with the chill in the air or the dampness of his clothes.

Slowly, the casket is lowered into the ground. He barely hears the priest as he recites the words that will commend his mother to eternal life.

_Lord, grant that our sister may sleep here in peace until you awaken her to glory, for you are the resurrection and the life._

Rainwater has soaked his hair, plastered it down to his skull. He wipes at his eyes and tells himself he’s not crying—it’s just the rain—but his chest aches and he knows it shouldn’t be this difficult to breathe. Severus clenches his hands into fists, feeling his fingernails bite into his palms.

_Then she will see you face to face and in your light will see light and know the splendour of God, for you live and reign forever and ever._

His mother’s grave lies beside his father’s. Their stone markers are unadorned, bookends in their simplicity. Tobias Snape’s is weathered now, the carved letters blackened with age. The marble of his mother’s gravestone is a polished, sky-coloured grey. _Eileen Prince Snape. Loving wife and mother._ She would have been seventy-two this November.

Severus knows he shouldn’t be angry at his mother for dying, but he is. He also knows he shouldn’t be angry at her insistence on being buried beside Tobias. Despite everything, she always loved the bastard. And it’s not as though there’s some Prince family plot his mother could have chosen instead. Eileen’s parents severed all ties with their only daughter the moment she chose a Muggle over them. Severus never met his maternal grandparents, and a small part of him understands why she stuck with her husband for all those years. After all, he was her choice, and she never went back on it.

Severus notices them then, standing off to the side. The boy is holding an umbrella, his dark suit a size too large. Potter’s glasses are fogged and rain-slicked. The fool hasn't bothered with an Impervius. Though, Severus supposes he’s not one to talk. The man’s black suit is perfectly tailored and, for the first time, Severus thinks he looks nothing like the boy he used to know.

Potter meets Severus’s eyes, holds his gaze for a moment, and nods, before taking his son’s hand in his and turning to leave. Severus watches as they make their way between the rows of gravestones and out of the small churchyard. He does not see them Apparate, but he feels the press of Potter’s magic—still familiar after eight years.

As the priest says a closing prayer, Severus looks around at the gathered mourners. He recognises a few people. The grocer’s wife, Mrs. Hilford clutches at her rosary, the strand of wooden beads twined between her fingers. The librarian, Mrs. McMahon, stands beside a man Severus does not know—her husband perhaps. He tips his hat, face kind, when he notices Severus watching them. Severus turns away, eyes falling to the casket again.

Its surface is wet with rain and littered with white rose petals. Severus stands there sullenly while the crowd thins. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone or hear the words of condolence and prayer.

When only he and Father Rossi are left in the churchyard, Severus steps closer to the grave and lowers his head, but he finds he has nothing more to say. He turns, thanks the priest for the service, and walks away, pulling his coat closed against the rain.

***

A week passes. Then two.

Severus intended to sell the house, return to France, but now— Now he’s not entirely sure what he wants to do.

He spends his days reading. For all he loved his flat in Paris, he missed the library here at Spinner’s End.

He’s not sure why he decides to Floo to Diagon Alley. He doesn’t need anything, but he knows he needs to get out of the house; some fresh air and activity will do him good. That doesn’t explain why Severus finds himself standing outside of Flourish and Blotts, though.

Potter’s name isn’t on the door. Mr. Wilkes is still sole owner and proprietor. Severus is unaccountably curious as to what exactly Potter _does_ here. He doesn’t know why he cares, but surely Harry Potter isn’t a mere store clerk. Severus peers through the window and frowns, realising he hasn’t a clue what Potter’s been up to in the eight years since the war.

Severus knows that Potter never returned to Hogwarts to finish his schooling, but he did sit for his N.E.W.T.s and he passed with flying colours. Whatever it was Potter spent his would-be seventh year doing had clearly increased his magical knowledge and abilities tenfold. Still Potter—the most heralded recruit in decades—hadn’t lasted six months with the Aurors. Instead, he withdrew from the training programme, causing quite a bit of uproar, and Severus has no idea what he’s been doing since.

Severus is not surprised that Potter didn’t want to be an Auror. Since his infancy, the weight of the Wizarding world’s expectations had rested on his shoulders. Severus understands why he ultimately decided to do the unexpected. But working at Flourish and Blotts? Severus didn’t see that coming.

The bell on the door clangs as Severus enters the shop. Potter is behind the counter. He looks up and smiles when he sees him. The man’s dressed casually, his jeans worn and faded. He’s wearing an old t-shirt proclaiming the name of some Muggle band, its logo cracked and peeling.

“Professor Snape,” Potter says, when Severus reaches the counter, “what can I do for you today?” There’s a large book open in front of him, its pages yellowed with age. Severus doesn’t recognise the language but, at first glance, the script appears to be some variant of Phoenician. Potter’s taking notes in a slim journal. There’s a ballpoint pen stuck behind his ear. “Oh, yeah,” he says, looking down at the book when he sees Severus staring, “it’s ancient Aramaic. Though, best I can tell, some sections more closely resemble Mandaic.” He shakes his head and laughs. “It’s made dating the thing problematic. And the translation’s been a bitch, but anything Coptic is not really my strong suit, so…”

At Severus’s no doubt incredulous look, Potter trails off. “Right. And you totally didn’t come into the shop to talk about my latest translation difficulties, so,” he smiles pleasantly, “what can I help you with?”

“I, er…” Severus blinks. The Potter he remembers could barely negotiate texts written in English, much less Latin or, _Merlin_ , ancient Hebrew. “I wanted to thank you for attending my mother’s funeral service.”

“Oh,” Potter nods, “yes, of course. I’m glad I was able to be there. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Severus looks around. Mr. Wilkes is not in the store, but Potter’s son, James, is sprawled on the floor in the Transfiguration and Practical Charms aisle, a colouring book open in front of him. Otherwise, the shop is empty. “What do you do here?”

The question is admittedly abrupt, but Potter only smiles, a flash of straight, white teeth. “I sell books.” He shrugs. “Among other things.”

Before Severus can respond, something buzzes. Potter pulls a mobile phone from his pocket and looks down at the screen. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I have to take this.” He takes a step back away from the counter, bringing the mobile to his ear. “ _Hello?_ ” he says, turning his back to Severus. “ _Yes, that’s right. No, I told you the earliest I could be there was end of next week…_ ” He speaks quickly, voice low, but Severus can’t help but overhear. Potter shakes his head. “ _Because I don’t have a place to store it yet, and_ even _if I did, I won’t be able to start on the work before then anyway._ ” Potter is silent for a minute while he listens to whomever is on the other end of the line. Then he says loudly, “ _Absolutely not_.”

James has abandoned his drawings on the floor and wandered over to stand beside Severus at the counter—no doubt to better listen in on his father’s conversation.

“ _Because volatile does not even begin to describe that thing! You know that. And even_ if _it doesn’t blow you and half the damn Floo network up while you’re at it, I really don’t want to find out what that magic will do when you get it here. It won’t let me work with it, though. I can guarantee that._ ” Potter turns back around; he scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. “ _Right, well that’s not really my problem. Did you use the containment spells I recommended?_

He’s quiet for another minute. Finally he sighs. “ _It’s going to cost you extra._ ” He pauses. “ _Okay, fine. I’ll be there in ten._ ” Potter puts the mobile back in his pocket. “So, er, I hate to ask you this,” he says, looking at Severus, “but I’m in a real bind. Would you mind watching James for a bit?” He glances down at his watch. “It won’t be more than thirty minutes. Forty-five, tops. James?” he continues, before Severus can respond. “You’ll mind the shop?”

The boy nods. “I know how to work the register, Dad.”

“Okay. And you know how to reach Hermione if you need anything. She should be back soon anyhow.”

Severus is about to say that he is neither a babysitter nor a shopkeeper when Potter turns on his heel and disappears. His magic hangs in the air, clinging to Severus’s skin for a moment before it’s gone. “You have to be kidding me,” Severus says, but James only shrugs.

“He does that sometimes.” James looks around the shop. It’s still empty. “Come on,” he says, heading towards the door. Severus follows because he’s not sure what else to do. James flips the sign over on the door so it reads, “Closed.”

“I thought you were supposed to watch the store?”

The boy shrugs, thin shoulders rising and falling. “Mr. Wilkes is out today and no one’s buying books this afternoon anyhow.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “No one is buying any books because you’ve closed up the shop.”

“Obviously.” James rolls his eyes. “But they weren’t going to anyway.”

Severus frowns. The comment strikes him as odd, but he doesn’t have time to question it because James is walking away from Flourish and Blotts and Severus has to hurry to catch up.

The boy sidesteps a puddle. The sun is out now, but it’s rained on and off for days. He turns a corner, hands in his pockets, and he does not look back to see whether Severus is following him. It’s clear he knows where he’s going, that he’s comfortable here. Severus supposes that makes sense. James did say that they lived above the bookshop. Of course he’d be familiar with the area. Still, the boy’s not yet eight. Severus isn’t sure Diagon is a place he should be roaming unattended, even if things are vastly different here now than Severus remembers them being during the war.

James stops in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. “Do you like brooms?” he asks, once Severus is beside him.

“Not particularly.”

The boy looks up at him, a scandalised expression on his face, and Severus has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Like father, like son. But James doesn’t comment on Severus’s preferences; he only shakes his head and steps back from the shop’s window. “No matter. There’s ice cream just down the street.”

Severus has always detested Fortescue’s. The shop itself smells saccharine, sickly sweet, and Severus _knows_ every single surface is sticky. He instinctively tucks his hands into his pockets as James gets in line behind a rather harried-looking witch with three small children. When it’s his turn, James orders a cone with two scoops of chocolate and caramel sauce. “Do you want anything?” He glances back at Severus.

“I… Tea, please,” he tells the spotted-faced teenager behind the counter.

Their order costs Severus four Galleons. James only had a Sickle and three Knuts on him.

They sit at one of the tiny tables outside. Severus takes a sip of his drink and grimaces: even the tea is sweet. He watches the boy as he turns his cone between his fingers, licking all the way around. He already has ice cream on his chin; some more drips down onto his t-shirt. He dabs at it with a napkin but only manages to smear caramel sauce across the faded Chudley Cannons logo.

Severus doesn’t miss teaching. There was a time when he thought he might. He _does_ miss the late night conversations with Minerva and Filius. He misses his Potions lab and the endless supply of fresh ingredients. And he misses Albus. Severus will miss Albus until the day he dies. But he does not miss the children.

However, James—unfortunate namesake aside—is…interesting. The child is small, but Severus recalls how undersized his father was even at eleven. And, despite his stature, Severus can already feel the power thrumming beneath the boy’s skin. It’s not uncommon for some magical children to display a propensity for magic at this age, but it’s usually wild. James’s magic, though, is tightly wound and more controlled than some of the first, second, even third year students Severus remembers.

“How old are you?” he asks, picking up his paper cup. It’s warm against his hand.

“Seven years, seven months,” he says, mouth full of ice cream, “eight months next Thursday.”

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

James laughs. “I’m sorry, but you _were_ a professor, weren’t you?”

Severus nods. “I was.”

“Then surely you know that no one goes to school until September.”

“Right.” Severus must concede the point.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. James finishes his ice cream and goes to work on the cone. Crumbs scatter across the tabletop in front of him. Severus wonders what Potter is doing and where he Apparated off to so suddenly, leaving his child with a man he hardly knows—a man he used to hate.

“What does your father do?” he asks once his tea is gone.

James shrugs. “Works at the bookstore.”

“That’s all?” Severus presses. He hasn’t inventoried Flourish and Blotts’s shelves, but he’s reasonably certain the text Potter was translating isn’t part of the bookstore’s standard fare.

The boy looks at him, dark eyes appraising. “Doubtful.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t know?”

James tilts his head, regarding him for a long moment. “Do you know how much magic’s out there?” he finally says.

“I do…”

“Because it’s infinite, really. More than can fill all the books at Flourish and Blotts.” He pauses, chewing on his lip. “All the books in the Hogwarts library, too.” James leans back in his chair, rocking it onto two legs. “I’ve been there, you know. To Hogwarts.”

“Have you?” Severus says, banishing his cup to the bin.

“Yeah. Three times. But the magic,” he continues, “someone invented it. I mean, magic, of course, exists. It’s part of our natural world. But the spells that make it work—somebody created those.”

“Yes…” Severus says carefully, not sure what the kid’s getting at. Still, his eloquence is unsettling.

“And if you know the right books,” James says, decidedly, “you can probably do anything.”

“In theory,” Severus agrees. “But it takes far more than merely knowing the spells. A weak, untrained, or careless wizard can have trouble with the simplest ones, never mind the truly complex magic.”

“True.” The boy lets his chair fall back to the ground with a thud. “But if you’re powerful enough…”

“Are you powerful enough?” Severus asks, cutting him off.

James shrugs. “Don’t know yet. Dad won’t let me experiment with any of the really interesting books. And,” he adds, lip curling in distaste, “I don’t have a wand yet.”

“Nor should you.”

“Yeah, well,” he doesn’t look convinced, “I don’t know how to create magic yet anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can _do_ magic, of course.”

“Naturally,” Severus says, though, really, it shouldn’t be.

“When I think about things, I can usually get them to happen, but that’s not the same as understanding how magic works like my dad does or knowing how to invent my own like you can.” He looks at Severus, eyes intense. “You _can_ write magic, can’t you?”

“I can,” Severus says, wondering how in Merlin’s name the boy knows that.

“Thought so,” James says. “Then you should be able to help.”

“Help with what?”

“Help build Dad’s library.”

Severus doesn’t have a chance to ask what he means because James cocks his head to the side and says, “he’s back. We should go.”

Severus frowns, but he stands when the boy does and follows him back to the bookshop.

He does not ask about James’s mother. Severus would never admit it—even under threat of Cruciatus—but he spent the better part of the day before perusing back issues of _The Prophet_ for any and all references to The Chosen One. Findings were disappointingly few and far between. There was no mention of any nuptials and nothing to shed light on what it is, exactly, the man does. Ginevra Weasley—Potter’s last publicly known love interest—married a Liam Conlan of West Sussex in 2004. The two are currently expecting their second child together.

The sign on the door still reads “Closed.” As they enter the shop, James cries out, “Hey Dad! We’re back.” He doesn’t sound at all apologetic or concerned that his father might be upset he was gone.

Potter doesn’t look up. He’s seated behind the counter, his laptop open in front of him. Severus wonders if he lets the customers see it. It’s the type of Muggle technology that makes far too many wizards uncomfortable. “Great,” he says, distracted. “What did you do?”

“Ate ice cream,” the boy says, climbing up onto the stool beside the register. He hooks his feet over the rungs. “Professor Snape doesn’t like brooms.”

At that, Potter does look up, green eyes bright. “Well, that’s a shame.”

“Your child insisted upon running rogue through the streets,” Severus explains. “I thought it best to accompany him.”

Potter smiles. “Thank you.” He runs a hand through his hair; his index finger is stained with ink. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Yes, well…”

Severus is just about to excuse himself—he’s already spent far too much time with the Potters today—when James says, “Where’d you go, Dad?”

“Prague,” Potter responds simply, closing his laptop.

And Severus, frankly, can’t even pretend to be surprised that the man has apparently Apparated to and from the Czech Republic, all in under an hour’s time.

Potter stands, ruffling James hair. The boy smiles but bats his hand away. “So,” he says, looking at Severus, “would you like to see what I really do here?”

Severus follows Potter up the back staircase. James trails behind, dragging his fingers along the banister’s rungs with a thump, thump, thump. At the top, Potter pauses to press his hand to the door. Severus feels the wards shift to let them in.

The door opens to a brightly lit but cluttered living space. Wide windows span the length of the room; the curtains are drawn back, and warm afternoon sunlight spills over the wood floor. There are bookshelves against the wall, each overflowing with texts and scrolls. Potter’s desk sits in a corner, its surface littered with stacks of paper and several discarded teacups. The leather sofa is worn and comfortable looking, and two mismatched armchairs flank the hearth. The living room opens onto a small kitchen. Severus can see black and white tiles lining the counters and a row of copper pots and pans hanging above the stove.

It smells like dust up here, and it smells like magic. The air is electric with it. Severus can feel it in his bloodstream; it raises goose bumps on his skin. He wonders if Potter notices the sheer amount of power surrounding him; the man practically exudes it.

James curls up in one of the armchairs and reaches beneath the cushion to pull out a Muggle comic book. Then he waves one hand in the air; a bottle of water zooms in from the kitchen. Potter doesn’t bat an eye at the display of wandless, wordless magic. Instead, he sets his computer on the desk and kneels down beside James.

“Hey, kiddo, can I talk to you for a moment?”

James puts the comic book down again and nods.

“See that book over there?”

The boy turns to the corner where Potter is pointing. Severus follows his gaze. He hadn’t noticed the table before, but considering the veritable Fort Knox of protective magic concealing it, he wouldn’t have done.

“Yeah…”

“Well, consider that area off-limits. A bona fide no-fly zone.”

James rolls his eyes. “I figured as much. It’s not like your spellwork isn’t throwing up any red flags or anything.”

“Right,” Potter says, but his expression is serious. “Still, I need you to promise me that you won’t go near it, that you won’t try to touch it.”

James looks at the table again before looking back at his father. “What is it?”

“It’s bloody dangerous, is what it is.”

James laughs at his father’s language but doesn’t look entirely satisfied by his answer. “Got it.”

“Good,” Potter continues, “because if my magic doesn’t knock you out cold—which I think we both know it will—that book, it will do a lot worse.” He puts a hand on James’s knee before standing up again. “And I don’t think I’d know how to fix it.”

Severus takes a step towards the table. He’s curious—not so much about the book, though any object that dangerous would spark his interest—but more so about Potter’s magic. The man has always been exceptionally powerful. Severus knew that when he was a student at Hogwarts. He hasn’t seen his magic up close, though, not since the night of the final battle when Potter saved his life. But he was dying then and, frankly, all he remembers is the cold, dank air of the shack; the blood that spilled down his throat, sickly and warm; and the press of Potter’s fingers, his magic, cool and…comforting.

This spellwork is complex, it’s intricate, and it’s stronger than anything Severus has felt in a very long time. “I take it _that’s_ what called you away this afternoon,” he says, indicating the book on the table.

“Yeah.” Potter rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. Hermione is out on another job and Mr. Wilkes didn’t come in today or I would have just left him in the store.”

Severus nods. “Luckily, I didn’t have any other plans this afternoon.”

“Well, I really do appreciate it. Sometimes I get these clients that won’t take no for an answer.”

“The book?”

“I’d arranged to pick it up next week, but I guess the magic was too much for him.”

“I can see why,” Severus says, glancing at the table once more. “And what, might I ask, are you planning on doing with it?”

“Translate it, for one.”

“From what?”

He laughs, a warm bark of sound. “Not sure yet. Damn thing wouldn’t let me touch it, much less open it.”

Severus frowns. “Yet you know you can translate it?”

Potter rubs at his neck again; he looks mildly uncomfortable. “I can translate pretty much anything. Hermione is better with the ancient languages, but together we can handle most texts that come our way.”

Severus’s disbelief must show on his face because Potter quickly adds, “I studied linguistics, you know, years ago after James was born. I have my masters.” As if that explains his ability to translate ‘pretty much anything.’

“So you offer translations services?” Severus asks. He’s not quite sure he believes that Potter is some sort of language expert, but he’s beyond curious.

“Yes. But that’s only part of what I do.”

“He’s making a library,” James says, from the chair. He doesn’t look up.

“A database, actually.”

“A database?”

“Yeah.” Potter grabs his laptop again and, opening it up, makes a few clicks and turns the screen to Severus. It’s a table of contents. Severus scrolls down the page past literally hundreds of titles. He clicks on one of the links—Byron’s _Treatise on the Magic of Time and Space_ —and the text pops up. He hits the back button and selects another link. Again, the text pops up. Potter has scanned the original and created an electronic copy.

“And,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “you can search by title, author, subject matter, category of spell, original language, and date. Everything is cross-referenced.”

Severus clicks on several more of the links. The information here is extensive. He recognises several of the titles. Many are exceptionally rare. “You did all this?” he asks after a few minutes.

Potter shrugs. “I have a partner. You remember Hermione Granger, don’t you? She’s Granger-Weasley now.” He sits down on the sofa. Severus joins him. James is reading his comic book and ignoring them entirely.

“And to think I was certain you’d all go on to dramatically heroic careers with the Ministry.”

Potter’s lips turn down slightly, the hint of a frown, but then he shrugs. “The Aurors weren’t for me. That much was clear from the start. Ron’s on the force, though.”

“And Mrs. Granger-Weasley?”

“The database was her idea. She’s always been into research, but wizards—for all our knowledge and ability—are eons behind Muggles when it comes to accessing information.” Potter shakes his head. “Case in point: That card catalogue system Madam Pince uses at Hogwarts has got to be at least two hundred years old.”

“Older,” Severus says. The woman did update the catalogue occasionally when a new text arrived, but many of the cards had sat untouched in the file case for centuries.

“Yeah,” Potter continues, “and that thing was impossible to navigate.”

“It wasn’t…” Severus starts to object.

But Potter holds up a hand. “It wasn’t if you already knew exactly what you were looking for.”

“Point taken.”

“And while I don’t doubt that you, Madam Pince, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and most likely Flitwick, Pomfrey, and Sinistra knew that library backwards and forwards, not everyone does. And students would benefit from an easier way to access and navigate information.”

Severus scowls. There’s something to be said for good old-fashioned research. “So all that information should just be at the click of any wizard or witch’s fingertip?” If students were lazy before, he can’t imagine what will happen with such a resource at their disposal.

But Potter merely rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s not that easy. Neither the database nor the search engine will do the work for you. And then—even once you’ve located a potential source—you still have to read the thing.”

Severus isn’t convinced.

Potter sighs. “Remember my fourth year—the Triwizard Tournament? You were certain I’d stolen Gillyweed from your supply closet?”

“Are you finally confessing?”

“What? No.” Potter glares, but there’s humour in his voice. “I didn’t take anything.”

Severus raises an eyebrow.

“Why would I lie about that now?”

“I haven’t a clue, Potter.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t.” He smiles, a slight twist of pink lips, but there’s something sad in his expression. “A house-elf named Dobby stole your Gillyweed.”

Severus can’t help but laugh. He’s not angry; it’s been over a decade. “So you recruited a house-elf to help your cause. Impressive.”

“Thanks, I think.” Potter crosses his legs, resting one ankle on his knee. “But Dobby acted alone. Which brings me to my point. I solved the damn riddle in the egg. I knew what the task would be, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, find anything in the library about breathing under water.”

“There are charms. Transfiguration possibilities, and,” he looks at Potter, “Gillyweed.”

“Well, I know that now, but I didn’t then.”

“The Triwizard Tournament is designed to test your knowledge, as well as your power and magical abilities.” He’s making excuses, of course. He understands the point Potter’s making. How to breathe under water is a simple enough query. There should be a way a student could search the Hogwarts library for suitable resources.

“Believe me,” Potter says after a moment, “my knowledge was tested just solving that damn clue and determining what the bloody task would be. And if you don’t think my magical abilities were put to the test getting to the bottom of that lake and back, then I’m not sure what contest you were watching.”

Severus finds himself laughing again. “Understood.” He can’t remember when he last enjoyed a conversation this much. Not since his mother… He stops. He won’t think about his mum now. Not when he’s actually happy. That it’s with Potter is just a bizarre and rather twisted form of irony. “So let’s say I agree with you, for discussion’s sake, of course.”

Potter inclines his head. “Of course.”

“In theory, a database of magical texts and resources could prove useful. You’d have to systematically record and catalogue an unfathomably vast array of information…”

“Four years of work and counting.” Potter waves a hand haphazardly. A bottle of whisky sails into the room. It’s joined a moment later by two glasses. “Drink?” he asks, and Severus nods. Potter pours a healthy splash of liquid into each glass before handing one to Severus. “We started with the books at Flourish and Blotts and the Hogwarts library.”

Severus takes a sip of whisky, feels the warmth of the alcohol in his throat, his stomach.

“And are there online copies of each?”

“No,” Potter says. “Not of any readily accessible text. Books that, say, Flourish and Blotts keeps in stock, textbooks, magical encyclopaedias, and the like. Certainly nothing still under copyright, which, for the most part, means anything still in print.” Potter sips his drink; his fingers are long and pale against the amber liquid in the glass. “For those, the database will provide title, author, subject, and so on. And where to find the full text, of course.”

James gets up and disappears down the hallway, comic book trailing along in the air behind him.

“But you’re digitising texts that are less easily accessible?”

“Yes. Anything that’s rare, old as fuck, single print, et cetera.”

“And you have access to these texts?”

Potter shrugs. “The library at Grimmauld Place is extensive to say the least.” He takes another sip of his drink. His mouth is wet with whisky when he lowers his glass again. “Not to mention the Lestrange vault.”

Severus nearly chokes on his drink. “Pardon?”

Potter grins. “There was a loophole in the will. Narcissa didn’t object, and Draco’s actually lent us quite a few texts from the Manor’s library.”

The surprise must show on Severus’s face because Potter says, “What? Schoolyard rivalries don’t last forever. Malfoy’s a Healer. He understands the importance of research.”

He nods. Severus has kept in contact with a few of his Slytherins, and he is admittedly proud of Draco Malfoy; the boy turned out all right in the end.

“And Mr. Wilkes has secured quite a few clients interested in preservation. Priceless texts that have endured extensive spell or water damage or worse. Or books that are just so old they’re falling apart.”

“And you provide them with a digitised copy of their text?”

“For a small fee.” Potter smiles.

“Of course. And monetary compensation aside, you acquire a record of the text for your database.”

“Exactly.” Potter drains the rest of his drink and grins.

“And the translation work?”

“Well, there’s nothing more worthless than a magical text you can’t read.”

Severus finishes his whisky. Potter reaches for the bottle to refill his glass, but he shakes his head.

“A translated text, arguably, is equally worthless.”

“Perhaps.” Potter pours more whisky into his own glass. “But there’s value beyond practical application. Sure, you can’t cast a spell if you don’t know the language. Any Hogwarts first-year negotiating Latin for the first time can tell you that. But there’s still a lot to be gained from theoretical knowledge.” Potter takes a sip of his drink. “Take the ancient Egyptians,” he says, tucking his legs beneath him. “They had exceptional magic.”

“I’m aware.”

Potter laughs. “Well, of course _you_ are. But at the risk of sounding cliché, knowledge is power and, if I can facilitate better access to magical texts for the average witch or wizard, then I’m happy.”

Severus nods. “But how will they be able to use your database? I admittedly know little about Muggle technology, but I didn’t believe their Internet was compatible with our magic.” He remembers Albus lamenting that he’d never be able to ‘go online’ at Hogwarts. Severus had no idea what the man was on about at the time, but Albus had discovered the World Wide Web at public library in Aberdeen and quickly realised the potential. Still, with all the man’s capabilities, he’d never managed to make the school Internet accessible.

“Yeah,” Potter says, “I’ve got some pretty precise dampening spells in effect here, but the wifi still gets pretty wonky at times. Unfortunately, you’re right. Any place there’s a high quantity of magic—Diagon, Hogwarts, the Ministry—our database would most likely be worthless.”

Potter stands and, walking over to his desk, takes a slim disk from the drawer. It’s no larger than a playing card. He lets go of the disk and it hovers in the air. Potter mutters an incantation under his breath. The device emits a blue light that steadily brightens in intensity. Severus watches as it flickers, and then a holographic image of the database homepage materialises in the air in front of him. Potter raises a hand, pointing to one of the titles displayed in the air. The link opens and the text appears.

“Is this your invention?”

“Yes,” the man says, opening another link. He moves his hand in a sweeping gesture across the projected text and it enlarges. “It took some time to perfect the charms but the magic’s good.”

“I can see that,” Severus says, walking around the projection. The text is visible from all angles.

“So a library, for example, can keep these access cards on file,” Potter explains. “There’s limited storage available per disk, but they don’t take up any more space than Madam Pince’s current catalogue cards and they can be clearly organised by topic.”

“And they’re available for purchase, too, I assume.”

Potter smiles. “Naturally.”

“This type of resource, though,” Severus says, “is not exactly suitable for the average wizarding household.” He’s seen enough to know that much of the magic Potter has catalogued is dangerous and/or restricted.

Potter shrugs. He doesn’t look the least bit concerned. “The Ministry might not approve, per se, but you said it yourself—such information is practically useless if you don’t know the language of origin.” He waves a hand and the projected text blinks out of existence. “Besides,” he adds, slipping the disk back in the drawer, “if a dark wizard wants to find a restricted spell, he’ll find a way to do so. There’s no reason to withhold the information from the rest of us.”

Severus can’t help but agree.

“So,” the man says, leaning over the back of the sofa, “what do you think?”

He frowns. “About what?”

“About what we’re doing, of course. Would you like to join us?”

“Join you?” Severus feels like he’s missing something.

Potter laughs. “Of course. Why else do you think I’ve spent the past hour giving you the private tour?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but you’ve been back in England for over a month. Last I checked, your mum’s house isn’t on the market, and I know you’re not planning on returning to Hogwarts come fall. So, if you’re staying, I thought you might like some work.”

“I…I’ll think about it,” Severus says, a bit surprised. He’s intrigued by Potter’s project and, admittedly, by Potter himself. He sees no harm in considering the man’s offer.

“Great.” Potter’s grin is blinding.

***

Two days later, Severus finally brings himself to look at his mother’s desk. It’s exactly as she left it, of course. No one has been here and, as Severus sinks into the worn armchair, he thinks he can almost smell her perfume. He closes his eyes for a moment, remembering.

Her desk is neatly organised. A single framed photograph occupies the left-hand corner. Severus watches as his eleven-year-old self waves from the black and white image. Eileen wraps her arm tighter around her son’s shoulders. Behind them, the Hogwarts Express puffs a cloud of white steam into the air.

His mother’s journals are stacked on one side. There are four composition notebooks here, and Severus knows he’d find dozens more on the bookshelf should he go into her bedroom. He takes the top one from the stack and opens it. His mother’s narrow handwriting fills the lined pages. He turns them carefully, half afraid the entire book might fall apart in his hands. His mother had written spells for as long as he can remember. Still, the amount of magic here is staggering.

Severus recognises some of it—charms and spells they discussed late at night in Severus’s apartment overlooking the Seine, a bottle of wine open between them. The last few pages are empty, the spells left unfinished. He closes the journal and takes the next one off the stack. This one is dated some eight months earlier.

Spell writing came easily to his mother. She was never as powerful as Severus, but she always had a way of making magic do what she wanted it to. There was a beauty to her spells, too, an aesthetic quality that Severus, in all his precision and mastery, could never match.

He closes the notebook and summons the open bottle of Merlot from the kitchen. It’s nearly gone; he drank more than he thought the night before. He pours the remaining wine into a glass and takes a long swallow.

His mum always said she was going to publish her spells one day. Perhaps Severus will do so for her now.

***

“Do you want to get a drink? I need a drink.”

“Rough day?” Severus asks.  
  
“Something like that.” Potter’s mouth quirks and Severus can’t decipher his expression, but he steps aside as the man closes the door. He feels the wash of magic as Potter secures the wards. Flourish and Blotts is closed for the evening. Severus had come to discuss the translation of the text he’s working on. It’s a North Umbrian piece dating back to the 12th century. For all of Potter’s impressive linguistic abilities, he’s dismal at French, and Middle English gives him fits. Severus has not agreed to work with Potter and Granger-Weasley officially, but, over the past weeks, he’s taken a few jobs for them and has found that he enjoys it. It reminds him of the times he and his mother would write spells together. Though, now he likes the distraction of immersing himself in someone else's magic for a change.

The walk to The Leaky Cauldron is pleasant. Potter doesn't talk, but he matches his paces to Severus's own. Once inside the pub, Potter waves to the woman behind the bar and takes a seat in the corner. Severus sits down opposite him.

A dark-haired man appears at their table. He’s wearing an apron and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Harry, mate,” he says with a wide smile. “So good to see you.” The man is vaguely familiar. Severus knows he should probably remember him. When he looks at Severus, his eyes widen momentarily, but his smile returns quickly, warm and genuine. “Professor Snape. I heard you were in town. It’s good to see you, sir.” He extends a hand, and Severus takes it; the man’s grip is firm.

Severus’s lack of recognition must show because the man adds, “Neville Longbottom.”

“Mr. Longbottom, of course. I trust the years have been kind.” The man looks nothing like the student Severus once knew. But, then again, the war changed everyone. “You work here?” he asks, looking around the tavern. Aside from the young woman behind the bar, there appear to be no other employees.

“Only on summer hols,” he says. “My wife and I purchased the place from Tom a few years back.” He motions to the girl behind the counter. “I help out when I can.”

“Neville, in addition to bartender extraordinaire, is the Herbology professor at Hogwarts now,” Potter says.

“Ah.” Severus seems to recall Minerva mentioning something about hiring the Longbottom boy after Pomona retired.

“So what can I get you?” Longbottom asks.

“Cider for me,” Potter says. “And a plate of chips would be fantastic.”

Longbottom looks at Severus. “I’ll take a Newcastle, if you have it.”

The man nods and heads back to the bar.

“The food quality improved considerably once Hannah took over,” Potter says, leaning back in his chair. He stretches his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a thin swath of pale skin. Severus looks away. “They’ve even added some Indian fare to the menu.”

“I’m not hungry,” Severus says. It’s the truth.

Potter shrugs. “Suit yourself. Though I bet you’ll change your mind when the chips arrive.”

Longbottom returns with their drinks. Potter’s cider sloshes over the rim. He catches a few droplets with his fingertip. Severus watches as he sucks it into his mouth. Potter looks up then and smiles, his face warm and open.

“Where’s James?” Severus asks, picking up his glass. It’s cold against the palm of his hand.

“He’s with his mum for the weekend.”

“His mum?”

“Yeah.” Potter takes a long swig of his drink. “She lives in Soho, has James one weekend every month and we split holidays.” Severus has never heard him talk about James’s mother.

“Have you been separated long?”

Potter laughs. “Since before James was born—of course, that’s assuming we were actually ‘together’ in the first place.” He looks down, tracing a line of condensation along the side of his glass. “James wasn’t exactly planned.”

Severus assumed as much. He’s done the math; Potter would have been barely eighteen when the boy was born. “There are charms to prevent that sort of thing, you know.”

Potter’s glare is murderous. “I’m well aware, thanks. But I certainly wasn’t going to perform any magic on Sarah without her knowledge and consent.” He takes another sip of his drink. “Besides, we were safe.”

Severus raises an eyebrow.

Potter snorts. “Until the one time we weren’t.”

Longbottom appears with the plate of chips. Potter douses them in vinegar before shoving one in his mouth.

Severus drinks his beer. That James resulted from an unplanned teenage pregnancy is hardly noteworthy. He’d never really thought of Potter as irresponsible, but he taught in a school for nearly two decades. These things happen with fairly regular frequency. It’s Potter’s choice of partner, however, that is unexpected. “She was a Muggle?”

Potter looks at him. “Yes.” He chews on his lip as if considering whether or not to say anything else. “After the war, I took some time off. I travelled.” He leans forward, putting his elbows on the table. “I’d never been to the continent before—aside from Horcrux hunting, that is. We were in France for a day. Romania, too, I think. Hard to say.”

Severus nods. He won’t press about the Horcruxes. Albus explained the magic after he found and destroyed Marvolo Gaunt’s ring. How Potter, Granger, and the Weasley boy managed to find and ultimately eliminate five additional Horcruxes before Longbottom dispatched that blasted snake is beyond him, but that’s a conversation for another day.

Potter finishes his cider. Severus’s Newcastle is still half full. He takes a long drink.

“Sarah and I met in Prague. She was doing a ‘gap year’—or, at least, I think that’s what she called it—before starting university. I was in some bar one night, and there she was.” He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “She was beautiful and I thought she was so cool.” He shakes his head. “But really, she was just different. Or, I guess, she was _normal_. The most she’d ever had to worry about was revising for exams or who to take to the winter formal.” He runs a hand through his hair; it’s sticking up more than usual. “I fought in war, Snape. I killed people. _Hell,_ I died.”

Severus understands. After the war, after it was clear he was actually going to survive the whole bloody mess and not be sentenced to Azkaban for the rest of his life, he’d wanted nothing more than to disappear. And he’d done so for eight years.

Longbottom walks back over to their table and Severus looks to Potter. The man nods. “Sure thing,” Longbottom says with a smile. Severus watches him return to the bar for their second round.

“Did she know?” Severus asks.

“No. Not at first, at least.” He laughs. “That was the point, though, wasn’t it?”

“Right.”

“We spent a few weeks together before she had to return to England to start school.”

Their drinks are served and Potter looks down, sliding his glass back and forth between his hands. “We parted amicably, of course, but I admit I never thought I’d see her again.”

“She was pregnant, though” Severus prompts after a moment when it does not seem like Potter is going to continue.

“Yeah. I didn’t know until she was six months or so along. After Prague, I spent another two months in Europe. I went to Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Athens, and Rome.” He checks the cities off on his fingers. “No Paris, though.”

Severus drinks his beer while Potter talks. He’s not sure why the man’s chosen to tell him these things, but Severus enjoys listening.

“But imagine my surprise,” he says, “when she showed up on my doorstep—at Grimmauld Place no less.”

Severus frowns. “What happened to your Secret Keeper?”

Potter shrugs. “After Dumbledore, the protection was diluted. Anyone who’d ever had access could say the location, but I dismantled most of the wards after the war, anyhow.”

“Still, you need magic to even see the residence.” For all Severus detested Sirius Black, the spells woven into his family home were impressive to say the least.

Potter laughs again. “I know, right? But apparently that didn’t matter. James had more than enough for the both of them.” He takes a long swig of cider. “Honestly, I doubt Sarah even intended to tell me she was pregnant, but do you know how much magic a foetus is capable of? Because I sure didn’t.”

Severus sets his drink down. “It’s not unheard of for exceptionally powerful children to begin displaying magic in utero.”

“Well, it was clearly more than his mum bargained for.” Potter shakes his head, expression fond. “And I can’t say that I blame her.”

He laughs. “No, I imagine not.”

Potter smiles, looking at Severus. There is something in his expression that unnerves him. “What?” he asks, feeling self-conscious.

“Nothing.” Potter sips at his drink. “It’s just…you seem happy. It’s nice to see.”

Severus scowls, but it’s true. He _is_ happy. And, perhaps more startling, is that he does not want to deny it. “I am not unhappy,” he hedges.

Severus realises that he likes the way Potter laughs, likes the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. The warmth that uncoils in his stomach has nothing to do with the alcohol he’s consumed. “And what did you do then?” he asks, bringing the conversation back to Potter and his illegitimate offspring.

“I told her everything. Well, actually, I told her the truncated version of everything. Didn’t have much of a choice at that point.” He sips at his cider; Severus watches his mouth, his throat as he swallows. “Magic, wizards, the war. I left out the part where I came back from the dead to save the world.”

“Naturally.”

“She took it better than I expected.” He shrugs. “Though, by that point she’d certainly seen her fair share of inexplicable things, and any explanation is better than no explanation, I suppose.” Potter laughs again. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was as though she was a conduit for his magic.” He shakes his head. “Certainly didn’t leave any doubt that the kid was mine.”

“The boy does resemble you.”

“Yeah. There’s that, too.” Potter finishes his cider and leans back in his chair; the Weird Sisters logo on the front of his shirt is pulled taut across his chest.

“Have you always had primary custody?”

He nods. “Yes. Sarah and I tried to make a go of things at first, before the baby came, but it was pretty obvious it would never work. She talked a bit about adoption, but I wasn’t going to give my son up.” Potter’s face darkens. “I would have given anything to be raised by my parents.”

Something clenches in Severus’s chest at the mention of Potter’s parents. It’s been a while since he’s thought of Lily, but the pain is still there. Potter is looking at him, expression unreadable. He reaches out and, for a moment, Severus thinks he’s going to touch his hand, but the man obviously thinks better of it, dragging his thumb around the lip of his glass instead.

“I’m sorry, you know,” he says, and his voice is soft. “I never really knew my mother, but you loved her.”

Severus looks down, away from the intensity of Potter’s gaze. “That was a long time ago.”

“I know. But it doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.”

Severus drains the rest of his beer and does not think about how Potter’s eyes are the exact same shade of green as Lily’s. “Raising a child,” he says, deflecting once again, “is a huge responsibility—especially as a single parent at eighteen.”

“No one said it was supposed to be easy.” Potter shrugs. “And comparatively speaking, it was a walk in the park. I mean, after facing dark wizards and dragons, Dementors and Horcruxes, parenthood was a welcomed task. One I actually stood a chance of succeeding in, no less.”

Severus understands. During the war, he was also expected to do the unthinkable. It seems he and Potter have always had a great deal in common.

“And money was never an issue,” he continues. “Between my parents and Sirius, we will always have more than enough. Not many single parents—or any parents, for that matter—can say that.”

“No.”

Potter signals Longbottom for the check and manages to pay their tab before Severus can object.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, as they stand to leave.

“No, but I enjoyed the company and you didn’t have to listen to me talk for the past hour, either.” Potter shoves his hands into his pockets and follows Severus out into the alley behind the pub.

Severus taps his wand to the bricks and they shift, rearranging themselves into the entrance to Diagon. He’s fairly sure Potter doesn’t even carry a wand. Severus certainly hasn’t seen him use one. Severus feels naked without his and, though things are safe now—the war has been over for nearly a decade—it’s not smart to leave oneself unprotected. After all, it only takes one disgruntled wizard with something to prove to throw a curse.

Then again, even though Severus doesn’t know how powerful Potter truly is, he has a strong suspicion that very few wizards would stand a chance against him—regardless of whether he had his wand.

The walk back to Flourish and Blotts is pleasant. The heat has dissipated some now that the sun has set, and there’s a breeze. Potter’s hair blows into his face; Severus watches as he pushes it back behind his ear.

At the shop, Severus waits while Potter undoes the wards. The man turns and smiles. “Thanks again for, you know…”

“The company,” Severus finishes for him.

“Yeah. That was nice.”

***

The following afternoon finds Severus once again at the bookshop. Mr. Wilkes waves him upstairs without a second glance, and Potter doesn’t seem at all surprised to see him when he knocks on the door to the flat. The man simply summons a second cup from the kitchen and pours him some tea before grabbing an old book from the shelves and handing it to Severus.

“Here,” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “I made it through two chapters of this one, but the dialect was giving me fits. You’ll be better at it.”

Severus knows that’s a lie. His mastery of the majority of the languages Potter is paid to translate is passable at best, while Potter’s skill seems limitless.

Potter sits down at the desk and opens his laptop. The librarian at Durmstrang has finally agreed to lend him a few texts from their restricted section, and he’s updating his database with the new material. Severus isn’t sure what Potter’s offered in exchange for getting access to the books, but he knows the price was high. Durmstrang protects its magic fiercely.

They work quietly for over an hour, the clacking of Potter’s computer keys the only sound. At one point, Potter gets up and walks to the kitchen. Severus watches as he fills the kettle with water and casts a heating charm. He rummages through the cupboard for a new box of tea before pouring fresh cups.

Potter sits back down and looks at Severus. “You were watching me.”

Snape frowns but inclines his head. After all, it’s true. There is no reason for him to deny it. Still, the man’s observation unsettles him slightly. He must be getting careless in his old age.

“What do you want, Potter?”

“Don’t you know?”

Snape rubs a hand across his face. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not always reading your mind.”

That earns a soft laugh, and Potter ducks his head. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I can feel it now. The press of your magic.”

There is so much Severus wants to know. So many questions on the tip of his tongue that he has no right to ask. Instead, he takes a sip of tea and stares down at the book in his lap, though it’s difficult to concentrate.

Around five, a knock on the door interrupts them, and Potter stands, stretching his arms above his head until his spine cracks with a loud pop.

James rushes in, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Hey, Dad! Hey, Professor!” he yells as he sprints down the hall.

A woman stands in the doorway. Severus hasn’t thought much about what Potter’s ex-lover and the mother of his child looked like, but this is not what he expected. The girl is rail-thin, striking in her atypical beauty. Her dark hair is cut in a stylish bob, and her pale skin is accentuated by the tattoos that cover her arms. A rose blooms on her shoulder; inky black petals spill over onto her throat. A vine curves towards her collarbone before disappearing under her shirt. Stars cascade down her other arm, spiralling their way to what looks like a wand that stretches the length of her forearm. She extends a hand and Severus takes it. “I’m Sarah.”

“Severus Snape.”

She smiles, a wry quirk of glossy lips. “So you’re Harry’s old professor. James mentioned you’d been hanging around a bit.”

The boy chooses that moment to reappear, bounding around the corner, socked feet skidding on the scuffed parquet floor. “I’m unpacked, Dad,” he announces cheerily. “Thought I’d have some ice cream.”

“Not until after dinner,” Potter says, and the boy scowls. “Your mum said you went to the zoo yesterday. Did you have a good time?”

James tilts his head to the side, considering. “It was pretty cool, I guess. There was something wrong with the dragon, though.”

Potter frowns. “The dragon?”

“They had a Komodo Dragon. Native to Indonesia, apparently. It couldn’t fly.” The boy perches on the arm of the sofa. “Absolutely no fire breathing either.” He pauses, chewing on his cheek. “It has venomous fangs, though. Maybe it’s a distant relative to the Norwegian Ridgeback or Peruvian Vipertooth. Not sure how, though, if they can’t fly and are indigenous to some remote island in the Indian Ocean.” He flops back on the sofa cushions, folding his arms behind his head. “The Antipodean Opaleye is native to New Zealand and Australia. That’s pretty close to Indonesia. Perhaps they’re related to the Komodo. I don’t think so, though. The Opaleye isn’t poisonous.” He sighs. “Besides, the colouring is all wrong.”

“Or,” Sarah says, walking over to ruffle her son’s hair, “it might not be related to your magical dragons at all. Maybe it’s just your everyday, run of the mill, average Muggle dragon.”

James doesn’t look convinced. “Then it shouldn’t be called a dragon, now, should it? I’ll ask Charlie about it next time we see him.” He sits up again and turns to Severus. “Do you know much about dragons?”

He thinks for a moment. “I know twelve approved uses of dragon’s blood and another five illicit ones. I also know which dragon scales are most efficacious in which potions. But you’re right, Mr. Weasley would best be able to answer your questions.”

Sarah laughs and pulls James into a reluctant hug. Severus supposes she’s had nearly eight years to get used to such conversations. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, kid,” she says. “We’ll do some back-to-school shopping if you want.”

“Okay.”

“Where do you go to school?” Severus asks. Obviously the child will attend Hogwarts when he turns eleven, but he doesn’t know where he’s enrolled for the time being.

“This will be his second year at Hippogriff Hollow,” Potter says. “We had him in Muggle primary school, initially, but he’s got too much magic. You’ve seen what he can do without even having to think about it.” He laughs. “There’s only so many Obliviates you can cast on your local kindergarten teacher before you start feeling guilty about it.”

Sarah leaves a few minutes later. Potter smiles, telling her he’ll text her in a week or so, and James waves from his spot on the couch. “Love you, Mum!” he calls as she shuts the door.

Potter sits down in the chair opposite Severus and yawns, mouth opening wide. “What are you hungry for?” he asks James.

“Pizza,” he says without hesitation.

Potter checks his watch. “Vincent’s is open. We can walk.”

James stands and looks at Severus. “Are you coming?”

Severus didn’t expect such an invitation, but Potter smiles and Severus is hungry. “Yes. I’d like that.”

***

Severus is reading the latest issue of _Potions Monthly_ and drinking a cup of tea when the Floo buzzes. He sets the journal down on the side table. Severus rarely brews anymore. During the war, his skills were in constant demand. Between the Dark Lord, Albus, Pomfrey, and the Order, he felt as though he was always brewing. Now there are too many memories connected to the art he once loved.

The Floo buzzes again and he frowns, standing. He’s not expecting anyone today. He draws his wand to remove the wards but keeps it pointed at the hearth while the flames flash green. He lowers it again when Potter’s face swims into view.

“Mr. Potter,” he says, “I wasn’t aware we had plans today.”

“I, er, yeah, so something’s happened. Can you come through?” There’s an edge to his voice that alarms Severus. He almost sounds panicked.

“Of course,” he says, unease flooding his system.

Severus nearly stumbles over Potter as he steps out of the Floo; the man is still on his hands and knees in front of the hearth. As Potter climbs unsteadily to his feet, it becomes immediately clear that something’s not right.

“Oh good, Professor Snape,” the Granger girl says. “I’m glad you’re here. We could really use your help.” She’s seated at Potter’s desk, his laptop open in front of her.

“What’s going on, Mrs. Granger-Weasley?” he says, discomfort growing. He looks at Potter. The man is standing by the fireplace. He has both hands extended in front of him; he’s flexing his fingers as though he’s surprised they’re there at all. “What’s happened to him?”

“We’re not entirely sure,” she says, and Severus can hear the anxiety in her voice. “We were working on a translation—” she points to a book open on the desk beside her.

“I’m blind,” Potter interrupts. “And not in that middle-of-the-night-without-my-glasses kind of way.”

“You’re blind…” Severus repeats, not believing.

Potter turns towards Severus. His eyes are unfocussed and clouded behind his glasses, his irises a milky white rather than their usual vivid green.

“What was the spell?” Severus asks, walking to the desk. Granger slides the book towards him. He picks the text up, magic sparking against his palm, and his stomach twists. He recognises this book. “Where did you get this?” he asks harshly. The Dark Lord had a copy; he was under the impression that there were very few in existence.

“The Malfoy private collection,” the girl says. “The text itself has been tainted by dark magic, but the spells themselves are mostly cloaking and location spells. Nothing explicitly dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous,” Severus says, turning a few pages. “The Dark Lord used many of these spells.”

Severus can tell the moment the information clicks, a key sliding into its groove. She pales in understanding. “The book was at the Manor… Oh my God, the Horcruxes.”

“The concealment spell,” Potter says, “the one with the blood we were looking at earlier. I thought I’d seen that before.” He reaches out, feeling his way; he stops when he touches Severus’s arm, but he doesn’t drop his hand. Instead, his fingers curl around Severus’s biceps, five warm points of pressure. “When Dumbledore took me to the cave, the protections had to be unravelled with blood.” There’s an odd note to Potter’s voice. It sounds distant, and Severus knows he’s remembering things he’d rather not remember. “Dumbledore figured it out. We thought it was a sacrifice—a payment of sorts.”

Granger takes the book back from Severus and flips through several pages before finding what she’s looking for. She hands the book back to Severus.

“It’s not just a payment,” he says after a moment. “It’s a contract.”

“A contract?” Potter says. His hand falls to the small of Severus’s back.

“Yes. And the wizard who offers the payment is not expected to survive the transaction.”

“Of course not,” Granger says, voice low. “The blood offered isn’t meant to be symbolic.”

“Dumbledore said the enchantment was supposed to weaken him. I guess—” Potter stops, voice choked. “So this…this trip down memory lane has been great and all, but can we get back to my current problem?” He makes sweeping gesture with his hand. His unnaturally white eyes are unsettling. “Voldemort may have used that other spell, but it’s not the one that blinded me.”

Severus turns back to the spell that has somehow affected Potter. Thankfully, in comparison to the rest of the magic in this god-awful book, it seems relatively innocuous—discounting the blindness aspect, of course. “It’s a location spell.”

“Yeah,” Potter says, “for finding lost objects, or some rot like that.”

“And you’ve managed to cast it.” Severus rolls his eyes, though, of course, it’s lost on Potter. “You are, perhaps, more of an idiot than you were back in school.”

“Is the spell reversible, Professor?” Granger asks, before Potter has a chance to respond.

Severus sets the book down on the desk. “No, not reversible, exactly.”

“But what about Harry’s eyesight,” she says, alarm clear in her voice.

Severus runs his finger over a line of text. It’s a vulgar form of Latin, but the translation is clear. “Potter’s sight should return if we follow the spell to its completion.”

Granger taps her fingers against he desk. “So we need to find the object that was lost.”

“Okay…” Potter says, slowly. “And how do we do that?”

Severus reads the spell once more. “You should already know where it is.”

“How in Merlin’s name would I know that?”

He points to the most troubling line of text.

Granger translates: “ _Objects obtained by bloodstained hands, small recompense the spell demands._ ”

“Small,” Potter says, wriggling his fingers in front of his face, “really?”

“The spell, itself, isn’t all that dark," Severus says. "Its intent is not to cause permanent blindness. Rather, the blindness acts as a guarantee, of sorts.”

“A guarantee?” Potter frowns.

“That you’ll follow the spell to its end,” Granger says, understanding.

“Yes.”

The girl reads over the text again, though Severus is certain she’s got the thing memorised by now. “Well,” she says after a moment, “even if the spell’s not dark, the lost object most likely is.” A tendril of hair escapes from the knot at the back of her neck; she pushes it behind her ear.

“At the very least, whatever it is has a significantly bloody history,” Severus offers.

“Awesome,” Potter says, folding his arms across his chest. “So how do we find it, since I’m supposed to know where it is, and all.”

Severus feels slightly ill, but he takes a deep breath and says, “Close your eyes. You should feel a…pull.” The magic seems similar to what was involved when the Dark Lord summoned his followers with their Marks.

Potter closes his eyes as instructed, and then gasps. “I think I know where to Apparate to.”

“Good,” Severus says. “James?” He looks at Granger-Weasley.

“At Molly’s with Rose and Hugo. He’s fine.”

“All right. Pot—Harry, take my arm.”

They Apparate.

They land in a deserted field. The air is considerably cooler than it was in London.

“Where are we?” Potter asks.

“I’m not sure.” Severus looks around. “North.”

“Okay,” the man says. “This way.”

They walk for fifteen minute or so. Eventually they come to a small copse of trees. “It’s through here,” Potter says, turning. Severus keeps his hand on Potter’s arm, steadying him, though, really, Potter’s guiding them both. Severus does not like to think about this new relationship he’s developed with Potter, but he knows he’s comfortable with him and, regardless of circumstance, he _likes_ spending time with him. Potter has changed since his school years. He’s no longer the impetuous, impertinent boy Severus knew from his classes. Nor is he the frightened yet determined young wizard who learned he would have to face Voldemort and ultimately die trying. This Potter is capable, powerful, and intelligent.

Few people surprise Severus, but Potter has time and time again.

They emerge into a small clearing. There’s a house on the horizon—a rickety two-storey affair with a dilapidated fence and an overgrown garden.

“Do you see anything?” Potter asks, “Because I think we’re here.”

“There’s a house.”

“What does it look like?”

“Threatening.”

Potter laughs. “Well, I guess that’s to be expected.”

Severus can’t feel any magic as they approach, but he draws his wand nonetheless.

“There aren’t any wards,” Potter says, and Severus stops walking and looks at the man. Potter’s eyes are closed, his head cocked to one side as though listening.

Severus casts a detection charm just to be sure. “No, there aren’t,” he says slowly, unsure of whether he should be surprised that Potter was able to determine as much without his sight, a wand, or any obvious spell. “Do you even carry a wand?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“I, er, no. Not usually.” Potter has the good grace to look a bit embarrassed by the admission.

“And you don’t see a problem with that?”

Potter laughs again. “I don’t see much of anything right now.”

Severus nearly groans. “Obviously, Mr. Potter, but I assume you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” He ducks his head, traces a line in the dirt with the toe of his trainer. “But I really never need a wand.”

Severus refuses to be impressed by the declaration.

When they reach the door, Potter places a hand on the rotting wood. After a moment, he steps back. “Whatever we’re looking for, it’s inside.”

The door is secured by a simple Muggle deadbolt; it opens easily with an _Alohomora._ Inside, they find a shabby sitting room. The furniture is all covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Upstairs,” Potter says with certainty, and Severus nods, leading them to the small staircase. Severus feels the first wave of magic at the foot of the stairs. “Yeah,” Potter says. “It’s definitely up there.”

Severus follows Potter up the stairs, refusing to think that it’s literally the blind leading the blind. They reach a small landing. It smells of age and disuse. Dust motes cling to the air, illuminated by the light from the single leaded-paned window near the ceiling. There are three closed doors leading from the landing.

“That one,” Potter says a moment later, pointing to the door on the right.

Severus points his wand at the door and whispers one incantation after another. The door itself isn’t warded, but there is considerable magic here and, though it doesn’t feel particularly threatening, it’s far from innocuous. “The door’s safe,” Severus says, “but I can’t say the same for whatever is on the other side.”

Potter grins. “I could have told you that much.” He makes a show then of bowing and waving Severus towards the door. “After you.”

The man stands to Severus’s side as he opens the door and, though he’s still blind and, presumably, unarmed, Severus feels safer with him than he would with anyone else. The room was once used as a bedroom, but it’s clear that no one has been in here in a very long time. A threadbare rug covers the floor and there isn’t much furniture. There’s a narrow bed, its duvet dirty and stained. A tarnished silver pitcher is on the bedside table beside a pile of books. Severus does not have to touch them to know they’re not magical. An old bureau is tucked into one corner; on top of it sits a gorgeous funeral urn.

The urn looks sorely out of place. It’s a deep onyx colour, inlaid with delicate, sweeping lines of gold. Unlike everywhere else in the room, no dust has settled here; the urn looks freshly polished. Rationally, Severus knows it’s dangerous. He knows he definitely should not touch it, but he can’t stop himself from taking a step forwards.

“Whoa, there,” Potter says, reaching out to grab his arm. “I’m thinking, maybe, _I’m_ supposed to touch it, but I know for sure you’re not.”

Severus frowns, but doesn’t take another step. The urn pulses faintly. He can feel the magic; it’s subtle yet enticing. It feels old, unnatural.

Potter is muttering under his breath, clearly running through an extensive array of detection spells. “Okay,” he says after a moment, “you’re going to have to help me out here. If this works, we should have an idea as to what kind of magic we’re dealing with, but I can’t see, so…”

“I’m ready,” Severus says, raising his wand.

Severus doesn’t recognise the incantation Potter uses, but suddenly the air is charged with electricity. The urn glows an icy blue before a web of spellwork appears, surrounding it. Severus gasps. It’s as though Potter has pulled the magic out of the artefact.

“Tell me you’re getting something,” Potter says, and his voice is strained. “Because I can’t hold it for much longer.”

Severus stares for a long moment while he works to decipher the markings. “It’s a bonding spell,” he says finally, “but it’s anchored to older magic.”

“Can you see what that magic is?”

He squints, taking a step closer, but there’s nothing there. The bonding spell has completely cloaked whatever is underneath. “No.”

Potter exhales and the spell falls apart. The magic displayed in the air seems to collapse back in on itself before being reabsorbed by the urn.

“How did you do that?” Severus asks, looking at Potter. The man is hunched over, hands on his knees. He’s breathing heavily.

“It’s just a detection spell.”

Severus frowns. “No, it’s not.”

Potter laughs. “Well, not entirely.” He stands up again. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I’ve combined it with a draining spell.” He wipes a hand across his face. His eyes are still an unnatural white. “Detection only goes so far, but if I drain the magic while I’m at it, I can usually get an idea of what I’m dealing with. Of course, it’s only temporary. Eventually, the magic has to go back to where it came from, unless, of course, it gets absorbed by the spell caster.” He shakes his head. “And trust me when I say that you _never_ want to do that—no matter how tempting it may seem at the time.”

Severus nods but, of course, Potter doesn’t see it. “If the Dark Lord had known the magic you know…”

“We probably wouldn’t be here right now,” he finishes, “dealing with this creepy, er… What exactly is it?”

“An urn. Egyptian by the look of it.”

“Right,” Potter says. “Fantastic.” He purses his lips, brow furrowing. “So a bonding spell, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I really do have to touch the thing.” Potter bounces on the balls of his feet as though considering his next move. “So, um, I would probably stand back a bit,” he says after a moment. “This should break the bond, but I can’t vouch for what will happen after that.”

Severus moves back several steps.

Potter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before reaching out and touching the urn.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. For a second, nothing happens, and then there’s a loud pop. It feels like the air has been sucked from the room, but Severus hardly notices. He’s entirely focussed on Potter. The man’s body jerks once as though he’s been shocked. Then he’s thrown into the air.

He lands on his arse in the corner, back against the bureau. “Fuck.” He rubs at his elbow. “That…well, that wasn’t entirely unexpected, but…”

“Your eyes, Potter?” Severus says, cutting him off.

“Oh, yeah, right.” He slowly opens one eye and then the other; they are no longer clouded. “At least that’s taken care of.” He smiles, taking his glasses out of his pocket to put them on. Then he stands, rolling his shoulders once. “So what do we do about that?”

Severus looks at the urn. Now that they’ve broken the location spell Potter inadvertently invoked, bonding him to the damn thing, they’re left with whatever magic the artefact itself possesses. It’s clearly powerful, and Severus knows it’s dangerous. He casts a detection spell but the magic sparks painfully against his hand. He winces, looking down at his palm.

“Yeah,” Potter says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I don’t think it’s going to let us determine what that magic is, but I do know I’ve never felt anything quite like it.”

“Perhaps it’s time that we called your Mr. Weasley,” Severus suggests. “Without knowing what we’re dealing with, it might be wise to let the Aurors handle it.”

Potter’s grin is downright devilish. “What, and let them have all the fun?”

Severus doesn’t have time to object because Potter is already reeling off a barrage of incantations. Severus is once again impressed by the sheer amount of magic the man has at his disposal. It soon becomes clear, though, that nothing is going to touch the urn, much less unravel its magic. The thing seems to absorb some spells. Others it merely deflects, rebounding them back at him like a first-year’s Reducto, and not some of the most complex magic Severus has ever seen.

After ten minutes or so, Potter stops. “Well,” he says, chest heaving, “I guess that answers _that_ question.” He looks at Severus. “Unless you have another suggestion.”

“No,” Severus admits, “I think that…rather remarkable display just about covered it.”

Potter smiles. “Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair; it’s damp with sweat. “But that means we’re still exactly where we started. What the fuck do we do with it?”

“We can’t leave it here. Even without knowing exactly what it is, we know it’s dangerous. Besides, the location spell that brought us here is reserved for particularly dark or well-sought-after objects.”

“Meaning,” Potter says, “since someone has undoubtedly fought over this thing before, it’s likely someone will fight over it again.”

“And if we were able to find it, surely someone else will eventually.”

“Most likely,” Potter agrees. “But I sure as hell don’t want to Apparate with it. Chances are it won’t let us, anyway and, even if we manage, I don’t think we’d be able to do it safely.”

“No,” Severus says, “I doubt we would.”

“So, any brilliant ideas?”

“Perhaps,” Severus says, focussing his magic. He waves his wand in an intricate loop; the spell is comfortingly familiar.

The urn disappears.

“Wow,” Potter says, blinking. “Where did it go?”

“My house. Hopefully.”

“Awesome.” Potter grins. “Where’d you learn that one?”

“My mother.” Severus can’t help the sadness in his voice. “She used to invent magic.”

Potter looks at him and there is something in his eyes that unsettles him. “So that’s where you get it…” the man says softly.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothing.” Potter frowns. “So what was that spell?”

“Object teleportation. It uses the same principles as Apparition, but you anchor the magic to an isolated object.”

“Brilliant.”

Severus can’t help but nod in agreement; his mother’s spells were always impressive.

“So,” Potter says, extending his hand, “shall we?”

He takes the man hand and, together, they Apparate to Spinner’s End.

***

The urn didn’t blow up his house. But the wards, apparently, wouldn’t let the thing in either, which, upon reflection, is probably a good thing. They arrive at Spinner’s End to find the urn sitting on the front step.

Severus supposes he should be thankful that Mrs. Litton, the meddling old woman next door, didn't chose that afternoon to come snooping around. Severus doesn't know what the urn would have done to her, but he's sure it wouldn't have been good.

“Smart wards,” Potter says, more to the house than anything else, and Severus can’t help but agree. With a bit of rather creative magic, they manage to get the thing inside and onto the kitchen table—if there are a few added scorch marks now, Severus hardly notices.

Potter stands off to the side; Severus knows he’s frustrated by the urn’s magic. It’s strangely unreadable, and that’s not something the man is used to. Severus walks around the table slowly and examines it. The urn is old. Severus’s dating charm points to Egypt’s Middle Kingdom. It makes sense: their Canopic jars often had strong magic, and, considering the sheer amount of spellwork anchored to it, the urn would have to be powerful.

“It’s blood magic,” Severus says, and Potter nods.

“Thought so. That complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“Most likely.” The magic surrounding the urn is complex to say the least, and Severus doesn’t think it will be possible to unravel any of the protective spells without the blood originally used in casting. Something here, though, is disturbingly familiar. “What do you know about the Sangreal?” he asks Potter.

“The Sangreal?” Potter chews on his lip. “I know it’s another name for the Holy Grail,” he says, “the cup from the Last Supper that many believe Joseph of Arimathea used to catch the blood of Jesus Christ at the crucifixion.”

“Exactly,” Severus says.

“And what, might I ask, does that have to do with our magical jar?”

“Some scholars believe the chalice of the Grail legend is actually much older. Celtic myths have long told of cups or chalices with magical, restorative powers. There are stories dating back well before the time of Christianity of a cup or cauldron of rebirth. Such cauldrons could reportedly bring slain warriors back to life.”

Potter nods, catching on more quickly than Severus expected. “And it _could_ stand to reason that the ancient Egyptians had similar magic.”

“Precisely.”

Potter stares at the urn. “Do you think it works? I mean, can such things really raise the dead?”

“Nothing can raise the dead,” he says.

Potter looks mildly disappointed. “Right. I doubt that stopped wizards from fighting over the thing, though.” He looks at his watch. “Crap. It’s nearly eight. Hermione will be worried. I need to get back. James will be home soon, too.” He eyes the urn with clear distrust. “You okay babysitting our jar of life for the time being?”

“Of course,” Severus says.

“Because I can always call Ron. He could have a containment team here in no time.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“All right.” Potter nods. “Can I Floo you later?”

The question catches Severus entirely off guard. “I…yes,” he manages. “I would like that.”

***

Severus spends the rest of the evening running a litany of tests on the urn. In the end, he concludes that there is no way to dismantle the protective spells—whoever last had possession of the urn did not want anyone else able to use the thing’s magic. Severus can, however, neutralise the magic.

It's the type of thing that no doubt belongs in the Department of Mysteries, but Severus finds he’s rather fond of the piece. And it looks nice upon his mantel. He casts one last containment spell on it just to be sure before heading into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

***

Severus wakes with a start. The pain in his left arm is excruciating. For a moment, he thinks he must be dreaming. He hasn’t felt the Mark in over eight years. He fumbles for his wand and reaches to the bedside cabinet to turn on the light.

He can hardly bring himself to look at his forearm. Surely, it can’t be true.

After the war, after Potter killed the Dark Lord once and for all, the Mark faded until it looked like nothing more than an old, regrettable tattoo. Now, though, the inky lines appear to move. Severus wouldn’t believe his eyes had he not seen that serpent slide through that ghastly skull a thousand times before. His breath catches in his throat, sickly and warm.

He’s woken up from a dream and into a nightmare.

Severus climbs out of bed and pulls on his trousers. His fingers shake as he buttons his shirt. He does not follow the pull of the Mark and Apparate. He’s neither an idiot nor suicidal. Instead, he stumbles down the stairs to the fireplace and Floos to Potter’s flat. He brushes ash off his shoulder as he steps from the hearth and does not think about the fact that Potter has his wards set to admit him.

It’s dark in the den, but there’s a light on down the hall. “Potter?” he calls out. “Harry?”

“Thought that was you,” the man says, emerging from the bedroom. He’s wearing flannel sleep pants. They are covered in what looks to be miniature Snitches. Severus watches as he pulls a t-shirt on over his bare chest.

Potter’s skin is very pale. He’s shivering. “Please tell me I don’t know exactly why you’re in my living room at half two in the morning.” Potter’s hair is wet from the shower, his fringe pushed back off his forehead. And there, on the smooth skin, the lightening bolt scar is a vivid and angry red. Severus feels as though a stone has dropped into his stomach. He thinks he might be ill.

“Your scar.”

“Yeah.” Potter rubs at his forehead. “It’s pretty obvious, huh?”

Severus nods.

“When I first woke up, I thought I was still dreaming. I even took a shower, thought maybe that might snap me out of it.”

“I know.” Severus rolls up his shirtsleeve. “I thought I was dreaming too.”

“Whoa,” Potter says, staring at the snake curling around Severus’s arm. “So this is really a thing we have to deal with.”

“I think so.”

***

This time they do call the Aurors.

Potter, apparently, is far more affected by his scar than Severus is by the Mark. The man is feverish, skin flushed and damp with sweat, yet he’s chilled. He’s got a jumper on despite the summer heat; Severus watches as he pulls at a thread unravelling on the sleeve.

“Voldemort’s not back,” Potter insists. He’s not looking at Weasley; he’s staring down intently at his hands. Another Auror, dressed in standard-issue grey robes, stands in the corner taking notes.

“How can you be so sure, Harry?” Weasley asks. He sounds tired. He’s not wearing his uniform. His Arsenal t-shirt is faded, and there’s a hole at the neckline.

“I just know, okay.” Potter doesn’t look up. He traces a symbol in the palm of his hand with his fingertip. “Besides, there haven’t been any sightings, no Death Eater activity, nothing. It has to be something else.”

Weasley sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s longer than he wore it in school. “Okay.” He doesn’t question Potter. “So what are we dealing with here?”

Potter lifts his head; dark circles purple his eyes. “I don’t know.”

***

Severus’s arm hurts. The pull—the urge to Apparate away to a no doubt painful death—diminishes after twenty-four hours or so, but the pain is still there, tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

On the third day, he Floos Draco.

“Severus?” The man raises a pale eyebrow in surprise. Severus understands. It’s been ages since he’s called on his godchild. A baby howls and Draco winces. “Would you mind coming through? He prefers if I don’t set him down.”

Severus emerges into Draco’s sitting room. The shutters are open; sunlight spills onto the worn Aubusson rug that covers the floor in front of the hearth. Draco stands by the window, the baby in his arms. He’s bouncing the child up and down and muttering some sort of, no doubt, nonsense in his ear.

He smiles at Severus. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” The man’s trousers are rumpled; his usually pristine shirt is stained with what looks to be spit up.

“I—” Severus stops, looking down at the baby. “The boy has grown.”

Draco beams. “Yes. Now if he’d only sleep.”

Severus smiles fondly. Though he never thought it possible, parenthood suits Draco. “How is Astoria?”

“She’s well. She’s actually out for a bit. I’m on call all weekend, so I thought she could use a bit of time to herself.” He shifts Scorpius to his other shoulder. “Now, would you like some tea? I’ll call the elf…”

“No,” Severus says quickly, “I’m fine.”

The baby squirms, fussing a bit, and Draco pats him on the back until he calms, his small hand curling into a fist by his cheek. Scorpius’s hair is blond like his father’s, his fair skin a soft and rosy pink.

“And Narcissa? How has she been?”

Draco laughs. “Irritated, I’m sure. She’s back in Wiltshire, now. Astoria finally kicked her out last week. You’d think we lived in Kenya, not Kensington.” He shakes his head. “I tried to tell her we were only a Floo away. And Astoria’s right, of course. We need to adjust to taking care of Scorpius by ourselves without my mother constantly underfoot.”

“That’s understandable.”

The baby hiccups. Draco holds the boy out in front of him, nose curling in distaste at the dribble on the child’s chin. “It is, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still miss the middle of the night help.”

Severus doesn’t blame him.

“I was sorry to hear about your mum, by the way.” Draco looks at him, eyes sad. “I would have come to the service, but with the baby it was…”

“I know.” Severus cuts him off. He doesn’t want to think about his mother now. “The flowers your wife sent were lovely.”

The man nods, eyes searching Severus’s face for a long moment. “So what brings you over this fine afternoon?”

Severus rolls up his sleeve, exposing the Mark.

Draco pales. “Fucking hell.” He puts the baby in the small cot by the sofa and sits down. Slowly, he rolls his own sleeve up to his elbow. His Mark, though an inky black against his skin, is completely motionless. “It hasn’t moved since that night,” he says, voice almost a whisper, “that night Potter killed him.”

The words come as a relief, but Severus has to ask: “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure, Severus. That’s not the type of thing I could overlook,” Draco pauses, glancing over at the baby, “no matter how little sleep I’m getting.” His expression softens a bit. “Believe me, the only thing that Mark has done in the past eight years is remind me of what an idiot I once was.”

Severus nods. “And no one else has said anything? Seen anything at all?”

Draco shakes his head; white blond hair brushes against his cheek. “No, but it’s not like I’m in contact with many Death Eaters.” He frowns. “You know that, right?”

“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply…” he trails off, uncomfortable. For all of Draco’s mistakes, he’s turned into a fine young man.

“I know you didn’t,” Draco says quickly, “and I’m sure Greg or Blaise would have said something if they noticed anything.”

Severus knows he’s right, but that doesn’t help explain what’s happening. Severus sits down on the sofa beside Draco. He’s tired. The baby makes a soft sound in his sleep and rolls over, sucking his thumb into his mouth.

Draco reaches out, touches Severus gently on the arm. “It will be all right. If he were back, we’d know it.”

Severus is not convinced. It must show on his face because Draco smiles. “Let me guess, Potter’s scar’s bothering him, too?”

The comment catches Severus by surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Whatever it is you’re up to must have triggered some reaction,” he says with certainty. The man leans back against the sofa cushions and closes his eyes. There are thin lines on his forehead, at the corners of his mouth, but he looks content. “I think it’s good you two are working together,” he says then. “Sure, Potter’s an intolerable tosser most of the time, but even I have to admit his little project is interesting.”

“I’ll confess, I was impressed by his undertaking,” Severus says.

“You do like research.” Draco opens his eyes again. “Not to mention the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, you’ve always rather enjoyed Potter’s company.”

“I most certainly do not.”

“Of course not.” Draco smiles, a wry twist of his lips. Severus doesn’t have time to respond because the baby cries out again, and Draco sighs, standing. “Right, right, little man. Your father is at your service, as always.”

Severus can’t help but smile as Draco lifts the baby, patting him softly on his bum. He stands, taking the Floo powder from the mantel.

“Don’t worry, it’s not the Dark Lord.” Draco assures. “Clearly you and Potter have gotten yourselves into some mess, but I trust you’ll be able to get yourselves out of it.”

Severus nods, hoping the man is right, and turns to leave.

“Oh,” Draco says, as Severus tosses the powder into the fireplace, “tell Potter I’ll most likely be at Mother’s next week if he’d like another go at the Manor’s library.”

“I will,” Severus says, stepping into the swirling green flames.

***

“It’s the book,” Potter says. “It has to be.”

Severus looks up from his reading. They’ve been researching for hours. Despite Potter’s extensive digital library, they’ve found nothing to explain what’s happened to his Mark and Potter’s scar—nothing short of the Dark Lord being miraculously alive and well once more. And they’ve both deemed Voldemort’s return an improbability—even more so now that Severus knows his Mark is the only one affected.

“Nothing would have the power to affect an old Horcrux scar—ruling out the maker of that scar, of course,” Potter continues, “except for another Horcrux.”

Severus looks over at the table where the book in question still sits under a formidable array of containment and dampening spells. “The book is a Horcrux…” As soon as he says the words, he knows it’s true.

Potter is already on his feet. He walks around the table, looking at the text. “The protections were nothing like what Voldemort wove into his, but I _knew_ that thing was bad news.”

“And you began work on the translation when?”

“Three days ago.” Potter bites his lip. He’s leaning over the table, staring at the book as though willing an answer to appear on its cover. “I finally managed to dismantle enough of the wards to touch it.”

“That coincides with when your scar and my Mark began hurting.”

“Yeah.” He rubs at his forehead absently. The lightning bolt is still red and swollen. “I should have known. From the moment I got that damn thing, I could tell there was something off about it. I mean, I deal with a lot of dark artefacts, but that magic felt…familiar.” He laughs but it’s devoid of humour. “I guess it’s nice to know that Voldemort wasn’t the only sick fuck out there who was bent on immortality.” He makes a face as though he’s smelled something foul.

Severus understands the impulse. “I think it’s time we followed up with Mr. Weasley.”

“Yeah,” Potter agrees. “And I’ll Floo Minerva about borrowing her sword.”

***

Severus doesn’t hear from Potter for a few days. He could stop by the bookshop to check on the Horcrux situation, but he’s reasonably certain Potter will let him know when he’s heard anything. Besides, a trip to Diagon would be akin to admitting that he misses the man’s company, and Severus isn’t ready to do that.

It’s Weasley, though, of all people, who finally Floos with an update. Severus crouches down by the hearth, listening as the man details the two false leads they ran down. “Harry would have called himself,” he says then, “but he thinks he’s finally got a trace on the magic.”

“And have you destroyed the Horcrux?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Harry’s sure our only chance of catching this guy is with the magic that’s wrapped into that spell. If we destroy it then we could lose our only way of finding whoever created the Horcrux.”

Severus hadn’t thought of that, but it makes sense. And Potter has the best grasp of magical theory of anyone he’s ever known—save, perhaps, Albus. It’s understandable that he’s apparently got the entire Auror force coming to him for advice. “I didn’t realise Potter was an Auror now, Mr. Weasley,” he says. “Do you have him running point on your mission, as well?”

Weasley smiles and doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed by Severus’s clear jab at his department. “Nah, that would be me. But we do know when to accept help when it’s needed. And it _was_ Potter’s damn book that started this whole mess in the first place. Why not take advantage of his expertise?” He laughs. “Besides, you saw it. That thing was nasty.”

***

“So they found him.”  
  
“Oh?” Severus hasn’t seen Potter in nearly a week. Now the man’s standing on his doorstep, hands in the pockets of his worn khaki trousers.

“Yeah. Can I come in?”

Severus opens the door wider. Potter follows him into the narrow entryway. “I finally managed to get an accurate trace on the magic. Some wizard up near Newcastle. Murdered his wife a few years back.” Potter looks down, running a hand through his hair. “I guess we're lucky the Horcrux was a fairly recent creation, otherwise I would have never been able to determine a location.”

“I take it this was not the man you acquired the text from two weeks ago?”

“No. I’m not sure how my client ended up with the thing, but now I understand why he couldn’t handle the book’s magic.”

“And am I to understand that you personally witnessed the suspect’s apprehension?”

“Nah.” Potter shakes his head. “I like magic and books. Tracking down Horcrux-creating murderers isn't really my thing anymore. I leave that to the professionals.”  
  
“Right. And the book was his only Horcrux?” Severus can’t fathom anyone creating more than one; the magic involved is sickening to say the least. But after the Dark Lord, one can’t be so sure of these things.

“Yeah, I mean, we think so. He confessed to his wife’s murder. Didn’t mention anyone else.” He laughs darkly. “Though, I suppose they’ll find out eventually. The guy’s going to be in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life. If that life turns out to be a bit longer than expected then, well, I guess they’ll know to start Horcrux hunting.”

“I suppose so.” Severus looks at Potter; he looks exhausted, but he’s not nearly so pale as he was the last time he saw him. Without thinking, Severus reaches out, brushes the hair back from Potter’s forehead. Potter inhales sharply, but he does not flinch or pull away. His skin is soft and cool against Severus’s fingertips, and though the scar is still pink, it is no longer inflamed.

Severus drops his hand and looks down at his own arm. His shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing the jet-black lines of the Mark. He can’t believe he didn’t notice. The snake is still once more, its body curved around the hideous skull. Hesitantly, Potter holds out his hand, traces a finger along the tattoo. Severus shivers at the touch.

“You destroyed the Horcrux,” Severus says softly.

“Yes.” Potter drops his hand. “I almost called before we did it, but I didn’t know if you’d want to...” He looks down. “I’m sorry. I should have offered. You deserved to be there.”

Severus cups Potter’s chin in his hand, forces the man to look up again. “No, it’s all right. I’ve had quite enough drama to last a lifetime.” And it’s true. Yes, Severus _was_ admittedly intrigued—after all, he never witnessed the destruction of any of the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes either, but he’d heard of their incredible self-preservation and defensive capabilities. Still, the book’s magic hit too close to home. He did not need to play voyeur while Potter destroyed the thing. “I’m glad it’s done.”

Potter smiles. “Yes. Minerva sent Neville with Gryffindor’s sword. As its last steward, we thought it best he come along. Didn’t want the sword to refuse to allow Ron or me to wield it or something.”

“Good thinking. And, I take it, the three of you managed without incident? Or did Mrs. Granger-Weasley join in the festivities?”

“No, Hermione was watching the kids. Apparently it only takes three Gryffindors to destroy a Horcrux nowadays.”

“Would you like to come in?” Severus asks; they’re still standing in the entryway. “I could make some tea.”

“No,” Potter says, “I’m not thirsty.” He walks past Severus into the small sitting room anyway. He stands by the window, staring out to the street in front of the house. He’s fidgeting, and he looks distinctly uncomfortable.

Severus frowns, unsure of what to do.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

It’s the last possible thing Severus expected Potter to say. “I...yes.” Severus answers before he can stop himself. The question has thrown him entirely off kilter. He knows he _should_ deny it, but it’s the truth; he's wanted Potter for weeks.

“Okay.” Potter turns around but he doesn't make any move to touch Severus. Instead, he glances around the small sitting room, hands shoved in his pockets. For all his forwardness, he still looks unsure. “Oh,” Potter says, eyes falling on the urn displayed on the mantel.

Severus feels the back of his neck heat.

“You kept it.”  
  
“I did...” Severus refuses to be ashamed of his decision, but he still feels as though he’s been caught with his hand in the biscuit barrel.

“Huh,” Potter says. “Why?

Severus looks down, runs a hand though his hair. “My mother,” he finally says. “She would have liked it.”  
  
“Oh. It looks good there.”  
  
“Thanks,” Severus says awkwardly.

“Dangerous as fuck, though,” Potter continues. “I can feel the magic from here.”  
  
Severus nods. “I’ve got it contained.” And he does. He worked for nearly three hours on the magic the evening they brought it home. “It should be safe enough. Unless,” he glances at Potter, “some idiot tries to touch it. Or,” he looks back to the urn, “if it were to fall, of course.”  
  
“Right,” Potter says, still staring at the mantel. “So, er, bedroom?”

Severus leads Potter up the narrow staircase. He has yet to clean out his mother’s room. Someday he will. If he’s going to stay in England, to continue living at Spinner’s End—and he thinks now he will—he should take the larger bedroom.

There are only two rooms upstairs. The room that was once his parents’ and then, for so many years, his mother’s, and the smaller one that was his boyhood room.

It’s cramped—there’s hardly enough room for the bed, bedside cabinet, and the bureau that’s slid up against the wall—but Potter doesn’t seem to mind. He closes the door behind them and pushes Severus against it, kissing him roughly. Severus’s hands fall to Potter’s waist, as Potter bites at his lip, opens his mouth against his.

Potter smells of almonds and spice, and his magic sparks hot against Severus’s skin. It’s intoxicating. In France, he would go to bars and occasionally he would let men take him home. But it was never very often and it was _never_ like this. Potter kisses like he’s drowning, and Severus is already hard, so hard.

Potter is too. He can feel the length of the man’s erection against his thigh as Potter rocks his hips into his. Then Potter’s hands are at his belt. Severus’s stomach tightens as he undoes the buckle. His fingers fumble with Severus’s fly, and Severus slides his tongue along the shell of Potter’s ear.

When they get in bed, Potter climbs on top and grinds against Severus until he comes, spurting hot and wet between them. Then he wraps his fingers around Severus’s cock and jerks him off in long, gentle strokes.

Severus is just about to ask him to stay—they can get take-away, drink a bottle of wine; Severus can fuck him properly and fall asleep with the man curled beside him—when Potter rolls over and stands. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth red and swollen. He’s gorgeous, and Severus realises he can’t remember ever feeling this way about someone.

It’s unsettling.

“So, er, I have to go,” he says, and, just like that, something like ice cracks deep inside Severus’s chest.

“Of course.” His voice is cold. “What else would you do?”

Potter frowns, clearly upset by Severus’s remark. “Well, I _would_ stay for a while.” He sits back down on the edge of the bed. His shirt is stained with come, but he hasn’t bothered with a cleaning charm. “I’d take you to dinner. See if I could convince you to let me blow you later.” He looks pointedly at Severus’s cock, which, despite everything, is showing renewed interest. The man kisses him then, a soft press of lips. “But James is at Arthur and Molly’s for dinner, and I promised I’d pick him up by eight.”

“I’m sorry,” Severus says. “I misunderstood.”

“I know,” Potter says, zipping up his trousers. “But I’d really like this to work, so you have to believe me when I say I wouldn’t do something like that.”

“I believe you.” And Severus does. “When can I see you again?”

“James is spending the night out this weekend,” Potter says, brushing a hand against Severus’s cheek. “I’ll Floo you.”

***

Severus can’t sleep that night. Instead, he thinks about Potter. He wants to touch him again, to reach out and let his fingers trail over his pale gold skin. He wants to smell him, to inhale the scent of ozone, almonds, and magic.

He wants to hear Potter’s voice, low and breathless. He replays their encounter in his mind, remembering what the man did, what he said. The words echo in his head. He lies awake for a long time, the only light coming from the moon framed in the open window; there are no streetlamps on Spinner’s End, no car lights. Occasionally he hears a horn, a siren off in the distance. But, for the most part, it’s quiet here.

***

Three nights later, Potter takes Severus to dinner. James is staying the night with Teddy Lupin; Severus was at the shop when Andromeda Floo’d to pick him up.

They eat Indian food at some tiny place in Muggle London Severus has never heard of before. They split a bottle of wine and a plate of samosas. For mains, Severus orders the dal and listens as Potter prattles on about a translation he’s having trouble with, about some Muggle gaming system James is obsessed with, about the new baby Bill Weasley and his Veela wife are apparently expecting.

Severus finds that it doesn’t matter what Potter says—he likes listening to him talk. He likes the cadence of his speech, the tenor of his voice. He likes watching the man’s mouth. Potter licks his lips, spears a piece of chicken with his fork, chews and swallows.

After a minute, Severus realises Potter has stopped talking. He looks down, dips a piece of nan in his dal. When he looks up again, Potter is staring. “You were watching me,” he says finally.

“Yes.” There is no reason to deny it.

Potter tilts his head to one side. “That’s okay. I like it.” The man’s gaze is enough to take Severus’s breath away.

They finish their meal quickly. Potter doesn’t object when Severus pulls several bills from his wallet to pay the cheque. They Apparate together to Potter’s flat, and Potter’s mouth is on his the moment they arrive. “I thought, maybe” Potter says after a moment, tearing his mouth away, “you could blow me.” He’s breathless, pupils blown.

“God yes.” Severus walks them backwards to the couch, hands already undoing his belt, his fly.

Potter sinks into the cushions with a sigh as Severus pulls his pants down past his hips and curls his fingers around his cock. He kneels down between Potter’s legs and sucks him into his mouth. “Fuck…” Potter groans, eyes closing. His thighs tense under Severus’s hands as he slides his tongue along the length of Potter’s shaft.

“Good?” Severus asks, pulling away.

Potter nods, cheek flushed pink. Severus leans forward again just as the Floo buzzes.

“Harry? You there?”

Severus falls back on his arse just as Weasley’s head appears in the flames. Potter has managed to summon a blanket to cover himself, but it’s still painfully clear what they’ve been doing.

“I, oh…” Weasley flushes as red as his hair. “I’m sorry to interrupt, and all.” He looks at Severus. “Good to see you again, sir.”

Severus resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“It’s good to see you too, Ron,” Harry says, brightly, “but I assume there’s a reason you’ve called.”

“I, er, yeah, there was, I mean…” If Severus weren’t so mortified, it’d be humourous hearing the man stumble over his words. “So, we’ve set the trial date,” he finally manages. “For Maximus Day, your Horcurux creator. The twenty-third of next month. You’ll need to testify, of course.”

“Of course,” Potter says, “I’ll mark my calendar.”

Weasley doesn’t leave.  
  
“Was there anything else?” Potter asks, pleasantly. Severus is certain he’s never been so embarrassed.

“Um, no. So I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.”

Weasley’s face swims out of view.

“So,” Potter says with a smile, “where were we.”

“We _should_ have been in your bedroom.”

“Good point,” Potter says. He doesn’t bother to zip up his trousers as he stands and walks down the hall. Severus follows.

Potter’s room is small but nicely furnished. The bed is unmade, down comforter halfway on the floor. Potter wastes no time in leaning over the mattress, elbows resting on rumpled white sheets. Severus runs his hands down Potter’s spine, pressing up against him before stepping back to push the man’s pants down the rest of the way. Potter glances over his shoulder and smiles; his expression floods Severus’s gut with warmth. “I think, at one point, I asked if you wanted to fuck me,” he says, shifting his hips against Severus’s. “Do you still?”

“Yes.” His voice is too low, too breathless, but it doesn’t matter.

Potter reaches out a hand; a vial of lube smacks into his palm. Severus isn’t sure where it came from, but he takes it gladly. His hand shakes as he opens the bottle, but he manages to slick his fingers and slowly slip one, two, inside Potter’s arse. The man hisses, shifting against the intrusion.

“Have you done this before?” For some reason it’s important that Severus know.

Potter laughs a bit nervously. “I have a kid. Surely you recall how that happens.”  
  
He frowns. “Of course, I meant with...” He looks down between them. Potter’s arse is gorgeous. He twists his wrist, makes Potter groan.

“Oh, you mean with a man?” Potter pushes up on his elbows, fucks himself back on Severus’s fingers. “Yeah. A few times.”  
  
This admission makes Severus jealous. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Have you?” Potter asks, breathless.

“I have…” he says, carefully. “It’s been a while, though.”

“Okay,” Potter says simply. Then, “I’m ready now.”  
  
Severus pulls his fingers free and smears the remnants of oil on his cock. He wastes no time in pushing inside Potter, though he goes slow, smoothing his hand across Potter’s skin.

“Damn,” Potter says quietly, back arching as Severus’s hips hit his, thighs flush against Potter’s. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Yes,” Severus agrees. He breathes out shakily as he begins rolling his hips, thrusting in and out. He leans over, mouth sucking a bruise onto Potter’s shoulder blade. For a moment, the man is quiet under him, breathing fast, one hand clutching Severus’s.

“Fuck,” Potter says again. His skin is damp with sweat, his t-shirt pushed up to his armpits. “Oh God, yes—” he sighs when Severus hooks a hand under one of his thighs, lifting his leg so he can push in deeper. Potter’s fingers curl around the wrist of the hand Severus is bracing himself with, fingers squeezing tight. The man laughs breathlessly. “I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks.”

“Have you?” The words are nearly enough to send Severus over the edge. Tension builds at the base of his spine. He holds off as long as he can, enjoying the slow build, the pleasure that spirals through his veins, but he can only last so long before he’s coming with a low groan, pressing Potter into the bed with his whole body. For a moment he holds himself there, legs shaking while Potter twists underneath him, turning to look at him, and smiles dazedly. Then Severus realizes that Potter hasn’t come yet, and he pulls himself away, carefully slipping out of him.

“Turn around,” he says, kissing him hard before dropping to his knees. Potter smiles again and turns, leaning back, propping his elbows on the mattress. Severus’s come drips down his thigh.

Potter looks down at Severus fondly, smoothing a hand over his hair, down his cheek. Severus leans forward, sucking him in without hesitation. It doesn’t take long before Potter is coming. He cries out, thighs tensing and cock pulsing in Severus’s mouth. Severus swallows before sitting back on his heels and wiping his mouth. Potter is leaning back on the mattress, lips curved in sleepy smile “You should stay the night.”

“I…all right.”

Once under the covers in Potter’s bed, Potter kicks off his pants and tugs off his t-shirt. “You should be naked too,” he says against Severus’s throat. And though he feels a bit awkward and exposed, Severus pulls his trousers, his shirt off and lies back as Potter curls around him, skin warm against Severus’s skin. They lie there quietly for a bit. Severus thinks he can feel Potter’s heart beating against his own chest.

“So I realised,” Potter says after a while, “that I never asked you if you meant to stay.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Severus says, confused. “You did ask me to stay the night.”

“No, no. Of course you’ll stay the night. What else would you do?” Potter’s voice is soft but sure. “I mean stay in England.”

Severus stiffens. He’s thought about it, of course. The decision was made weeks ago, really. But lying here in bed with Potter, forcing himself to say the words, makes it feel real in a way it hasn’t before.

Potter pulls away, leaving an empty space between them. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice uncertain now. “I didn’t mean to pry. Besides, Paris is just a Floo away.” He laughs, but it’s nervous, forced. “Or, I can always Apparate—if you’d like me to, of course.”

“I’m staying.” Surprisingly, it feels good to say it out loud. It feels final.

“Thank God.” Potter relaxes beside him again. “I mean, James has really taken a liking to you,” he adds hurriedly, “and Hermione and I could use a permanent partner—if you want to join us, of course.”

“Potter—Harry,” he says, cutting him off, “I like it here. I like you.”  
  
“Oh,” Potter says. “You like me?”

“I do. I thought that much was obvious. You’d like me to be your partner?”

“Yes,” Potter props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Severus. “Hermione agrees. She’s got enough on her plate with the kids, and you’ve already been such a great help with the workload. It would make sense.” He pauses, brushing his hand against Severus’s cheek. “If you want to.”

Severus doesn’t even have to think about it. He kisses him. “I do.”

Potter kisses him back.

After a few minutes, Severus pulls away. Potter lies down beside him, his hair a messy halo against the pillow. “If I’m to be you partner, though,” Severus says, “perhaps we should establish some ground rules.”

Potter looks at him, lips quirked. “Okay.”

“You’ll agree to start checking for Horcruxes before you begin any new translations of particularly dangerous or volatile texts.”  
  
“Deal.” Potter grins.

“And you’ll think twice before _blindly_ casting any spells from books you obtain from Malfoy’s library—especially books that were, at one point, most likely in the Dark Lord’s possession.”

Potter laughs. He presses his mouth to Severus’s shoulder; Severus can feel the smile on his lips. “That’s funny.” He rolls over, his chest a warm line against Severus’s side. “You’re funny, you know. But yes, I promise to use discretion in all future spell casting.” His hand finds Severus’s under the covers; the man’s fingers are warm against his. “Though, I have the utmost confidence in your abilities to save me from whatever…situations I might find myself in, so I’m not really sure why such precautions are necessary, but—”

Severus kisses him. Potter’s mouth is perfect.

“Point made,” Potter says, lazily. He flops back down against the pillow. “Can we sleep now? I’m exhausted.” He curls against Severus, head resting on his shoulder. Severus pets his hair, fingers sliding through dark strands. “This is nice,” Potter says, voice already slurred with sleep. “It’s nice here.”

“It is,” Severus agrees, and he means it.

There was a time once, many many years before, when Severus was happy in England. He thinks, perhaps, he can be happy here again.  


-The End-

  



End file.
